


A Moth to a Flame

by lastarael



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Hawkeye, Bisexuality, Closeted Character, Korean War, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slash, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2018-11-16 19:57:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 40,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11259885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastarael/pseuds/lastarael
Summary: He was poison. Pure poison. Attractive, charismatic, and a bit sociopathic. A force of nature personified. Destructive, undeniable, unstoppable. And like a moth to the flame that would immolate it, I couldn't stay away from him.Significantly revised and expanded Oct. 2018.





	1. The Rock and a Hard Place

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: this story is not your typical romance in that it revolves around an emotionally abusive same-sex relationship. If this makes you uncomfortable you may want to find something else to read.
> 
> Set in Season 3 at some point after "Aid Station."
> 
> Rated M for language, themes, and suggestions. No explicit sex (sorry!).
> 
> Disclaimer: the custody battle is going poorly. They’re still not mine. Damn.

"Fancy seeing you here."

The all-too-familiar baritone cut savagely through my pleasant buzz and I suddenly found myself on my feet, wearing the martini I'd just had in my hand.  My brain was still trying to figure out where the last couple of seconds had gone when a very appropriate line from _Casablanca_ derailed my thoughts and Humphrey Bogart's voice echoed through my stunned mind:  " _Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world_...."

"Drew," I said dumbly, turning to face the man who'd just entered the Officer's Club.  He was just as I'd remembered him, even after all these years:  still boyishly cute, with a sweet, misleadingly honest-looking face, ruddy cheeks on fair skin that burned if he even considered spending five minutes in the sun, dark brown doe eyes that really had no business being on a man, and silky black hair that I'd once loved running my fingers through.

"It's good to see you," he said warmly with a crooked smile, sounding immensely relieved.  "Nice to find a friendly face here on the welcome wagon."

"Or not so friendly," I warned him with a frown on my numb lips.  I didn't think my lips were numb from the alcohol.  The night was young – I'd only had four martinis.  I think I may have been in shock.  Let's see:  cold, sweaty skin; rapid pulse, albeit pounding violently through my veins and in my ears rather than being weak and thready; irregular breathing; lightheadedness; anxiety.  Yep, that was shock alright.  I'm a doctor.  I know these things.

His smile fell at my lack of enthusiasm.  "Why don't we talk?" he suggested solemnly, jerking his head toward the door.

I stared him down coldly.  "Why don't we not?"  'Talking' with Drew would be courting trouble, plain and simple.  Instead I parked myself defiantly in the chair I'd just so abruptly vacated to emphasize my rebuttal and peeled the front of my gin-soaked khaki shirt away from my chest with a grimace.  As much as I liked my martinis, I'd generally rather drink them than wear them.  Not to mention my sudden and pressing need to stay away from open flame.

Drew flashed me a challengingly superior look complete with quirked eyebrow and boldly pulled up a seat beside me at the table I was sharing with Trapper and Henry.

"Have a seat," Trapper said sarcastically, waving a hand at the chair Drew had already claimed.  "Take a load off."

"Don't mind if I do," Drew replied with a smirk.  Settling back in his appropriated seat, he groaned, "God, I could use a drink."

"Well, we have those here," Henry told him with an uncertain quasi-smile, looking between us with a mix of wariness and puzzlement.

I found myself targeted by those big brown eyes.  "You know you want to buy me a drink," Drew informed me beguilingly.

I stifled a laugh but was less successful in hiding the disdainful curl of my lips.  Declining to reply, I instead moved on to a more critical subject.

"What are you doing here?" I demanded, trying to keep my tone bland and probably (definitely) failing.  I sent a heartfelt prayer to a god I wasn't entirely sure existed that this man hadn't just been stationed at the 4077 permanently.  Surely He or fate or whatever supernatural force tasked with mismanaging the cosmic elements of this war could not be _that_ cruel.

Drew ignored me in turn.  "Bartender—"  He faltered at the unexpected sight of a hairy man in a sequined green evening gown wearing a tiara, then collected himself gamely.  "One scotch on the rocks and one very dry martini."  He pointed to me.  "On his tab."

Klinger looked to me for confirmation as the newcomer ogled him from his high heels to his bejeweled crown, and I rolled my eyes.  "Sure, why not.  It was on my agenda for tonight anyway."  I turned to Trapper and held out an invisible day planner.  "See, under 8 p.m.:  'Buy a fink a scotch on the rocks.'"  I turned back to Drew, cocked my head, and pinned him with an exasperated glare.  "So kind of the Army to provide a new fink to the 4077 for this very occasion."

"Aww, you missed me!" Drew crooned with a bright smile, reaching over to clap an overly-friendly hand on my shoulder.  I leaned away from his touch, eyeing his hand as if it was a particularly repulsive spider that didn't have the good grace to be sitting on the floor where I could step on it, all the while trying not to think about how that smile had always made me melt inside.

I narrowed my eyes at the jerk instead.  "I missed lancing boils.  I missed treating 80-year-old hemorrhoids.  I missed spending sleepless nights working on my dissertation.  I missed hangovers – though not very often, recently," I amended honestly.  "But I have _not_ missed _you_."  Yeah, okay, so that was a lie.  But it was one that I had to hold on to.  Drew had taught me a number of lessons – very few of them pleasant – and I'd learned them well.  I didn't plan on letting history repeat itself.

Unfortunately life was unimpressed by the plans of a mere mortal such as I and elected to follow its own warped agenda.  Well, that, or I had absolutely no self-control when it came to that man.  Self-control was an over-valued commodity anyway, right?  Regardless, for my pride's sake I decided to call it something along the lines of fate and leave it at that.

Trapper chose that moment to butt in, bless his heart.  "Ah, I don't believe we've been introduced.  Drew, is it?"

"Andrew," Drew corrected with studied politeness, extending his hand across the table toward Trapper.  The right to use his pet name had always been reserved solely for me.  "Andrew Kenna.  _Corporal_ Kenna, actually," he added with a grimace.  It seemed that he was still trying to get used to the fact that he was in the military now.  Something told me that he, too, had been shanghaied by the United States' draft board and press-ganged into service.  He wasn't exactly one of life's eager volunteers.  If there wasn't something in it for him, it was safe to say he wasn't interested.  I doubted that the Army had offered him anything remotely enticing besides an alternative to splitting rocks at Leavenworth for years.

Trapper's eyes flicked between the two of us as they shook hands.  "Trapper."  He mimicked Drew's introduction, tongue in cheek.  "Trapper John McIntyre.  _Captain_ McIntyre, actually."

I smirked.  Two minutes into their meeting and Trap was already mocking the guy.  Perhaps he'd picked up on the subtle tension between us.  Regardless of the reason, I wholeheartedly approved.

"Welcome to the 4077," Henry said in a reserved tone, also taking Drew's outstretched hand.  "Henry Blake.  I'm the C.O. here."  He continued to switch his gaze between me and Drew uncertainly.  "You in town for long?" he asked as he settled back in his chair, perfunctory handshake complete.  I wondered if Henry was calculating the potential for collateral damage.  The fallout from the meeting could very well be more severe than he could reasonably anticipate.

"As much as I wish I could say no," Drew said glumly as he eyed me appraisingly, "it seems that I'll be stuck here a while."

I bared my teeth in a mockery of a grin as a sinking sensation took root in my stomach.  "Oh, goody!  I'll break out the party decorations.  We throw parties around here like you wouldn't believe.  You'll be under the table in no time."  I sincerely hoped that someone would step on him.  One eager volunteer sprang to mind immediately.

Despite my banter I didn't move, unless you counted the spasming muscle in my jaw from my tightly clenched teeth.

Drew ignored the retort that likely hadn't really managed to mask my discomfort.  "Quite a charming place you have, I must say," he said to our group at large.  He managed to sound genuine.  He was always good at that.

Klinger approached with our drinks at that point, giving me a moment's reprieve to process the disturbing news.  The corporal's voice, followed by Henry's and Trapper's, added themselves to the background noise of my brain's panicked gibbering.  I was floored, and not in a good way.  It was bad enough that I was stationed here in this armpit of the universe stitching up dying kids on a never-ending conveyer belt.  But to be stuck here with _him_?  I must have done something positively horrific in a past life.  Instead of coming back as a claustrophobic snail, though, I got trapped in this hell-on-earth with my ex-boyfriend.  Somebody up there must've really had it in for me.

I drained my not-so-impressively-dry martini in one long swig while Drew watched with dark amusement out of the corner of his eye.  He considered his glass for a brief moment before following suit.  Setting it down on the table with a thud, he extricated himself from the conversation that had been going on without me, snared my bicep, and stood, hauling me up with him.

"Why don't we take a walk?"  He didn't wait for an answer.  "It was nice meeting you," he told Trapper and Henry smoothly, pulling me away from the table before they had an opportunity to reply.  I elected to walk with him rather than be dragged out in front of the crowd.  I was going outside with him whether I wanted to or not; I might as well retain my dignity.

I heard a chair scoot back and guessed (correctly) that Trapper had come to his feet.  "Hawk."  I heard my friend's voice – an inflectionless question – when I was halfway to the door.  He was asking if I was okay – if I needed backup.

I sent him an extremely faked reassuring smile over my shoulder.  "I'll catch you in a little bit."  Unspoken, but understood, was a 'Thanks for your concern, anyway.'  "If I'm not back in five hours, call the M.P.s," I added jokingly.  Trapper's wry grin looked a little forced at that.

 

·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·

 

"Is there a place we can talk?"

Drew's question seemed innocent enough, but I think we both knew what was going to happen as I led him to the creek for a private chat.  Regardless of the circumstances, our 'talks' always had a way of devolving into passionate sex.  Mind-blowingly amazing sex.  And very little actual conversation.

I felt an intense gaze on my back for the duration of the quiet walk, and as soon as I had a seat on the smooth boulder by the creek bed he was on me.  There was no exchange of feelings, no 'I missed you, how've you been?'  His lips claimed mine in impassioned silence and his hands slipped under my shirt to run over my torso.  I initially melted into the kiss, caught off-guard by a barrage of countless memories of bliss and ecstasy, before my higher thought process bitch-slapped my libido into submission.

"Drew," I said against his questing lips.  I pulled my head back, but he followed.  "Wait."  I released my grip on his hips, previously holding him close – when and how had that happened, anyway? – to place my hands on his shoulders, pushing him away.   "We were going to talk, remember?"  My eyes unconsciously roamed his face, mapping it anew.  The irises of his big brown eyes looked almost black in the dusk's fading light.  I couldn't stop myself from running my thumb lightly over his angular jaw and sharp cheekbones.  He was clean-shaven.  That was new.  I wondered if his signature thin mustache and short-clipped goatee would make a reappearance now that he was out of the Army's slipshod wartime version of basic training.

Drew brushed off my gentle touch and leaned in to run his lips across my jaw and down my neck, feathering my skin with electrifyingly-light kisses.  The sensation of his effeminately long lashes tickling my shoulder had my eyes fluttering shut.

"Talking's overrated," he mumbled into my collarbone.

The vast majority of my brain was in complete agreement with that statement, but that stubborn voice of reason fought gamely against the tide of passion.  "We can't do this," I gasped huskily.  My hands on his shoulders that were supposed to be pushing him away now held him in place, torn between their directives and the desire to press his body to mine.

"From where I'm standing it looks like we are."  He was actually closer to horizontal than standing, having pushed my upper body back onto the hard, uneven surface of the boulder until I was lying flat on my back, legs dangling off the edge of the rock and toes barely scraping the ground.

"Drew, stop," I said more firmly.  We had things to discuss.  What a dick he'd been to me and how I was not getting entrapped again topped my list of subjects.

He sighed in frustration.  I felt his erection pressing against my thigh as he stopped ravishing my clavicle and snuggled his face into the crook of my neck.  "Alright," he grumbled, voice muffled and lips lightly brushing my skin.  "I'm stopping.  Now what?"

I slowly sat up, pushing him vertical.  He had a seat beside me and my traitorous arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling his upper body against mine.  Ignoring the warning sirens sounding in my head, I pressed my cheek to his, eyes closing as I breathed in his still-familiar scent.  I hadn't realized how much I'd missed this.

"I hate you," I said with a complete lack of conviction.  Where had that useful animosity disappeared to?  Without my previous anger and resentment I was fast losing the capability to maintain a safe distance from this man.  Hell, who was I kidding?  That ability had gone A.W.O.L. the instant we'd reached the rock.

"I can tell," he replied with a deep chuckle that vibrated my chest.

I finally managed to get my arms to release him, pressing my mutinous hands to the cool rock beneath me in an attempt to make them behave.  I took a deep breath, but that fluttering in my torso – part exasperation, part excitement – stubbornly lingered.  "We can't do this," I repeated.

"Do what?" he asked innocently.  "We're not doing anything."

"I mean, _us_ ," I said eloquently.  "It won't work.  It never works."  I wouldn't let myself get sucked in again.  I _couldn't_.

We'd had a two-year-long, intense, highly volatile on-again off-again relationship when we were sharing a dorm room in undergrad together, before he flunked out at the end of our sophomore year.  I'd been pre-med; he was a physics major with aspirations to become a nuclear physicist.  He could have done it, too.  He was quite brilliant.  It was too bad for his academic career that he spent so much of his time and energy manipulating his way through Androscoggin College's student body.  If he'd had half the drive and discipline for his studies that he'd had for sex, booze, and machinations he could have been working on ways to drop bigger and better nukes on unsuspecting civilians instead of being drafted as an enlisted peon and shipped overseas to his ex's MASH outfit.

I had certainly never expected to see him again, and after my feelings for him had been violently squelched into a locked box in a purposefully neglected corner of my mind I'd counted myself lucky.  The man was poison.  Pure poison.  No, he wasn't a complete sociopath, but he certainly had strong sociopathic tendencies.  Between his cute, boy-next-door looks, his intelligence, and his charisma, he could entrap the best of us.  And he had:  me.

I'd seen how he was, of course.  I wasn't blind.  I'd known that we weren't in a particularly healthy relationship, but I'd been unable to permanently break it off while we were living together in that dorm room.  Emotionally distancing yourself from someone is difficult to do when forced to cohabit with them in a space the approximate size of a sardine can, and after the end of our freshman year I never did get around to request a housing reassignment (for reasons I didn't really care to examine too closely).  Which could make this situation problematic.  MASH 4077 wasn't the biggest outpost in Korea, and it certainly wasn't the easiest place to avoid someone.  Especially someone that some insidious part of your subconscious still had feelings for.  And no matter how hard I wished it wasn't so, those feelings consisted of more than just anger and wariness.

"Okay, that's fine," Drew agreed, far too amenably.  "There's no 'us.'  But a little sex never hurt anyone, right?"

'A little sex.'  _Just_ sex.  Sure.  I could do just sex, right?  I did it all the time.

Why did I have a sneaking suspicion that this time would be different?

Before I had the opportunity to pursue that line of thought he put his hand behind my head, gently fisting my hair in his fingers and pulling me toward him, and nipped lightly at my earlobe.  All rational thought left my brain and the majority of the blood in my body rushed south.  Damn him.  He knew that drove me _nuts_.  I heard a few muffled moans and realized belatedly that they were escaping my closed lips.  I felt myself being sandwiched between the cool boulder beneath me and the warm body on top and knew that I had to apply the brakes posthaste, but I couldn't even form a coherent sentence.

Ah, fuck it.  We could talk later.


	2. Baptism by Fire

We never did have any sort of in-depth discussion.  After our little tryst had reached its inevitable conclusion the post-coital conversation consisted of a generic "How've you been?" and "What've you been up to?"  And with that we laid the past to rest.  Or, in my case, violently bludgeoned my misgivings into submission and left them cowering in that same neglected corner that had previously stored my feelings for the man.  After all, why dredge up painful memories when it was easier to pretend like nothing had ever happened?  Especially for sex like that.  Damn, I'd forgotten how incredible it was.  Exceptional.  Phenomenal.  Earth-shattering, even.  No wonder I'd put up with his shit for two whole years.  Perhaps the flood of endorphins had something to do with my poor decision making, both at Androscoggin and the 4077.  Yeah, that sounded like a feasible excuse.  I decided to take that and run with it.

"So this is your new home?"  I eyed the disheveled khaki tent that he'd led me to with distaste.  Drew had a bottom bunk in a frightfully small, claustrophobia-inducing eight-bed tent that he'd be sharing with seven other corpsmen.  It looked quite a bit like the nurses' tents if they were double the width, except with a lot less frou-frou and a lot more squalor, and made the Swamp, with its numerous shelves, seating areas, and all-around comparatively adequate living space, look positively decadent.  A dilapidated oval table filled the center of the room, and personal storage was apparently limited to wardrobes in each corner and the narrow space below the bottom bunks.  Fatigues and the occasional civilian clothing articles hung from the ends of the cots, while presumably-dirty boxers and socks littered the floor.  A sparse collection of personal effects were displayed on small shelves hanging from the walls above each bunk, and pinups of scantily-dressed women were posted everywhere.  I supposed that the lack of snap inspections and drills and such at the 4077 enabled the draftees to eschew military-like discipline in a way that wouldn't have been tolerated at other posts.  It probably drove all of the regular Army non-coms nuts.

"Our dorm room was bigger than this," I exaggerated slightly.  "How can you live in such a crowded little cage?  There's not even a hamster wheel to run on."

Drew let out a humorless chuckle.  "When I find out you'll be the first to know."  With one foot he nudged his footlocker further under his bed with an ease that told me that it was probably empty.  One glance at his bunk – a blank canvas devoid of decoration or, really, any sign of habitation outside of the suitcase and pack that appeared to have been dumped unceremoniously on top of the mattress – told me that he hadn't yet bothered to unpack his belongings.

I remembered what he was probably feeling right then.  If you didn't unpack your things you could cling just a little bit longer to the illusion that your posting in this cesspool was a terrible mistake – or, better yet, a horrible, surrealistic dream – and at any moment you would wake up, or, at the very least, be able to take your unpacked bags and flee to the safety and comfort of home.  As soon as you saw your familiar belongings set in place in your new bunk all of that hope and wishful thinking died an ugly death, never to be heard from again.

I eyed his stuffed bag speculatively.  "Tell me you brought some booze."

Drew laughed contemptuously.  "Did you really think I'd come to the edge of civilization without my scotch?"

"'The edge of civilization'?" I echoed incredulously.  "Does this look like a Travelodge to you?"

The familiar sound of someone blowing into the microphone of the P.A. system interrupted our conversation.  "Attention all personnel:  night patrol casualties incoming via ambulance.  All shifts report to the lower compound and operating room.  Tonight's showing of _Miracle on 34 th Street_ will be postponed.  Hopefully until Christmas."

"I've got to go scrub up," I said to Drew with that sudden sense of urgency that the announcement of inbound casualties always provoked.  "We've got wounded.  Did anyone tell you what to do?"

"The kid who showed me to this tent told me to report to a Corporal Klinger for orientation in the morning.  I'm an X-ray tech."

Ah, so that's how he'd entered as a corporal.  That, or they took his two years of college into account.  The Army had some sort of system, but sometimes it was beyond me.  For example, how were so many incompetent pricks made officers?  A certain major sprang to mind.

"I think your orientation just got moved up by twelve hours," I informed him wryly.  "I'll help you find him, but we've got to be quick.  I wouldn't want you to miss your baptism by fire."

"Wonderful."  I knew he was being sarcastic, but you couldn't tell it by his tone.

We intercepted Klinger hustling from the O.C. toward Pre-Op.  The sequins on his gown sparkled in the moonlight and his tiara flashed brightly every time he moved his head, making him easy to spot.

"I have a delivery for you," I told the swarthy corporal.  "Show Dr—Andr—Corporal Kenna the ropes, would you?"

"Oh, sure.  No problem."  Klinger gave Drew an appraising glance, but redirected his attention to me when I leaned toward him.

"Let's mess with him a little bit," I told him, sotto voce.

"Huh?" he asked quietly, puzzled.

"Don't tell him the dresses are a dodge," I whispered.

A smile appeared on Klinger's face and spread into an impish grin.  "Yes, sir!" he replied at a more normal volume, practically clicking his heels with a mischievous sort of enthusiasm.  (And I do mean heels.)  "Whatever you say, sir."  He turned to Drew, who was eyeing him with both confusion and apprehension.  "Come on, this way."

"Break a leg," I told Drew darkly with a flash of teeth before rushing toward the newly-arrived ambulances.

 

·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·

 

Assigning myself to triage turned out to be a stroke of luck, since the scrub room was deserted by the time I made my way in to change.  As I stripped down to my boxers I noticed dark spots on my Army-issued drawers – residual dampness from saliva and semen – and the occasional white smear around the crotch.  I'd been sloppy, and that was dangerous.  It would be impossible for any observer to mistake those spots for anything but what they were, and it would have been a stretch for anyone who was paying attention to assume that I'd had time to find a nurse to be intimate with in between public sightings of me with Drew.  Looking furtively around, I hastily jerked on the white scrub pants and thanked my lucky stars that everyone else had already finished scrubbing up.  Once fully clothed, all evidence of my sins covered in clean white cotton, I washed up in the empty scrub room and made my way into the O.R.

I was on my second patient when Drew entered the operating theater for the first time, bearing a moaning infantryman from X-ray to Frank's table.  After the patient was settled, Drew took a moment to look around the room and immediately appeared to regret that mistake.  I watched the blood drain from his face as he stood rigidly, staring at the mess of intestines I was currently elbow-deep in.  Following a moment of frozen terror he bolted from the room in the direction of the admitting ward and the outside world, one hand clamped over his mouth.

Klinger, who had been carrying the opposite end of the litter and was waiting to escort his trainee back to X-ray, watched him go before locking eyes with me and shrugging, a resigned look on his face.  "Maybe I'll keep him in X-ray for the rest of the night."

I felt a pang of pity for Drew.  "Probably a good idea," I agreed with a wince.  "Let him at least have his first meal here before he runs out of things to throw up."

 

·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·

 

"You look rough," Drew said with some measure of sympathy when he caught up with me the next morning, finally exiting the hospital building after a long night of surgery.

I chose not to point out how rough _he'd_ looked the last time I'd seen him, white face tinged with green as he fled the O.R.  "Boy, you sure know how to butter a guy up," I joked instead.

"I learned from the best," he retorted.

I smirked.  "Why, thank you.  I try."

" _You_?" he shot back, as if he hadn't just been implying that I had, indeed, taught him his finest moves.  "I think you've been sniffing that nitrous too long," he told me with a sly smile.  "Maybe you should get that head of yours examined before it gets too big."

"You just haven't heard all the rave reviews I've gotten over here," I teased.  "Check the bulletin board sometime."

That killed the banter.  Drew's expression darkened and he changed the subject abruptly.  "You hungry?" he asked blandly.

"I could eat."  I pushed Drew's change in attitude aside, knowing full well what it stemmed from, and allowed myself to wonder with something akin to dread what awaited us in the mess tent.  "Then again, I could do my stomach a favor and skip breakfast.  And lunch.  And dinner."

"Food's that bad?" Drew ventured.

I made a face – one that didn't exactly suggest a high approval rating for the mess tent's offerings.  "They mainly serve World War Two surplus, with the occasional, relatively-fresh roadkill thrown in for variety's sake."

He scoffed.  "It's a good thing you never tried to make a living as a salesman."

I gestured toward the large tent.  "Well if you're not looking for honesty, next time specify beforehand."

Obviously still uncomfortable in his new home-away-from-home, Drew hesitated.  "You coming?"

I shrugged good-naturedly.  "Sure, why not?  If nothing else, I can serve as moral support."

"Do you still sniff your food?" he asked warily, eyes narrowed.  That had always bothered him for some unfathomable reason.

"I like to give my taste buds advance warning before subjecting them to such atrocities."

He snorted, but later admitted as we went through the breakfast line, "You weren't lying.  I can't tell what half this stuff is, and the things I _can_ identify I kinda wish I couldn't."

I was unable to contain a smug smile as I led him to the deserted end of a table, but graciously pushed every nearby condiment over toward his plate when he took his seat as recompense.  After a cautious taste test he slathered the contents of his entire tray with ketchup, then generously piled on the salt and pepper.  The face he made after his next bite told me that his efforts had just barely made the breakfast palatable.

"You're pretty much limited to this or some local food at Rosie's, the joint across the street," I explained.  "We don't get many kamikaze delivery boys dying to bring us edible meals out this way."

Drew bobbed his eyebrows in concession.  "Duly noted."  Despite the quality of the food in front of him (or lack thereof), he laid into the contents of his tray with purpose.  His last meal had probably been in Kimpo the afternoon before, and he'd tossed that in the bushes later that night.

Between bites he started humming under his breath – some tune that sounded like it could accompany a nursery rhyme.  At my raised eyebrows he grinned mischievously, and, yep, I knew that look.  He'd just come up with some stupid quasi-song to express his opinion on the quality of the food on his plate.  Without any prompting from me (probably since he knew he wasn't going to get it), he launched into an annoying little ditty.

> _How am I expected to eat that?_  
>  _Think these Army cooks just fried up a rat._  
>  _Yesterday's roadkill, you said?_  
>  _I'm not convinced that's how long it's been dead._  
>  _Pretty sure C-rations are fresher than this._  
>  _Who knew in Korea it'd be real food I'd miss?_  
>  _I'd kill for—_

 "Alright, Shakespeare," I said, cutting him off with a roll of my eyes.  "I get it.  The food sucks.  You don't have to go writing an epic for the mess tent."

He grinned at me, unabashed, but thankfully didn't pick up his impromptu song.  It was one of Drew's many eccentricities.  For someone who enjoyed science as much as he did, Drew was an incredibly talented musician.  He'd explained in the past how music was essentially just mathematics.  However, being talented with musical theory and proficient with a number of instruments didn't translate into being a great songwriter.  Even when he wasn't trying to be obnoxious his lyrics were fairly hit-or-miss.  Still, he'd written a number of songs for me in the years we were together, and I still treasured a special few – not that I'd admit that to him.

"So how was your first shift?" I asked him by way of distraction as I dissected a piece of toast to get at the least charred parts.

"Well," he told me between bites, "besides completely failing to get a reading on whatever the hell Klinger actually is" – he sent me a pointed look that told me he suspected I had a hand in keeping him in the dark – "the X-rays were easy enough.  A blind monkey with the intelligence God gave a mentally challenged rock could operate that machine… but I can't say it was easy handling the wounded."  With a shaky breath he added, "I mean, I had to _touch_ someone who actually had a bone sticking out of his shoulder.  And with the angle it was at I'm not entirely sure it was _his_ bone."  He shuddered and put down his fork.  "And all that blood… Jesus.  I don't know how you do it."

A detached part of me was reminded of how Drew, a staunch atheist, had ironically referenced God and Jesus in everyday conversation throughout our two years of cohabitation, usually irreverently and most commonly as a curse.  As he was raised Methodist, I guess it made sense in a sideways sort of way that he would retain some habits from his pre-high-school years.  Apparently the two decades since then hadn't broken him of the custom, and for some strange reason that amused me.  It seemed that I was quickly rediscovering some of Andrew's numerous quirks that I'd once found somehow endearing, blasphemy included.

"It gets easier," I assured him, wrestling my focus back to the point of conversation and chastising myself for letting myself get too fond of the man already.  _Just sex_ , I reminded myself.  "After a while you'll have seen so many mutilated bodies that it won't even faze you."

He flapped a hand at me, palm up.  "Didn't one of your psychology classes teach you how to be reassuring?" he asked caustically.  Before I could reply the hand fell to the table, extended slightly toward me, almost as if beseeching.  "How am I supposed to handle it in the meantime?" he continued in a rare display of vulnerability.

I put a comforting hand on the back of his neck and squeezed lightly.  "You take it one day at a time.  And if one day seems like too much, try one hour.  Or five minutes.  Whatever it takes."  When he still looked doubtful, I added:  "Alcohol helps."

"Now _that_ ," he said, picking up his coffee mug and tapping it against mine as if toasting the idea, " _that_ I can buy."

 


	3. Control

I woke from my post-breakfast snooze hours later to soft kisses trailing from my jaw to my clavicle.  I recognized Drew's scent immediately, along with the sensation of his slightly chapped lips and day-old stubble.  At first I let out a contented "Mmmmm," but then reality shattered the pleasure like a barrage of artillery fire bringing a sunny day's picnic to a premature end.

"Drew!" I half-shouted, sitting up abruptly, causing him to jerk back sharply to save his nose from a forceful collision with my shoulder.  "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

He seemed honestly surprised.  "What?  No one can see us."  He gestured around the otherwise-unoccupied, dim tent, its canvas walls down against the autumn chill and the window on the door shaded.

"What if someone walked through the door while you were doing that?!" I asked him indignantly.  "Are you trying to ruin both our lives?"  Okay, maybe I was overreacting slightly – it _was_ unlikely that we'd be caught with the tent in that state – but I was holding onto a vain hope that if I flew off the handle at his first slightly reckless act it would stop him from escalating.  It wasn't paranoia so much as self-preservation.

"But they didn't," he argued implacably.

I managed to keep myself from wringing his neck, but it was a close thing.  "You're going to get us caught," I hissed, despite knowing that this argument was futile.  For someone so intelligent, Drew could be ridiculously pigheaded at times, and more than often just didn't seem to care that there could be serious repercussions for his actions.

"Relax, will you?" he demanded with slight exasperation.  "It's fine."

"It's really not," I countered heatedly.  "Maybe _you_ don't care if you get a dishonorable discharge, but I _like_ being a surgeon."  I knew better than to ask him to refrain from such risky activities for my sake; I might as well direct that request to a brick wall for all the good it would do.  But I _could_ lay down some consequences that might get through to him.  "If you pull another reckless stunt like that, we're through.  You can go drag someone else down with you, but it won't be me."

He put up his hands in a pacifying gesture.  "Alright, alright.  Fine."  His tone sounded more irritated than apologetic, but I'd take what I could get.

Settling back into a crouch by my cot, his facial expression turned impish.  I guess the benefits to having shallow emotions included the ability to switch between them with ease.  "So, I was wondering if you'd join me for a shower?" he asked suggestively.  "You _did_ promise to give me a tour of the camp after we got some sack time."

"Only if you promise not to try anything while we're in there," I said, warning in my tone.  Standing naked with my very attractive ex-boyfriend could prove dangerous in a public setting.  Then again, the water was likely to be ice cold, saving me the awkwardness of being caught with an erection by some unsuspecting third party when previously in the sole company of another man.

"Scout's honor," he said piously.

I rolled my eyes.  There was no way Drew had ever been a boy scout.  As if to emphasize that fact, he watched intently as I stripped down to my red robe and boxers, trailing his eyes over my exposed skin with palpable desire.  As I hunted for a reasonably clean-smelling towel, though, his attention wandered and he surveyed the Swamp in all its glory.  The slovenly conditions didn't seem to bother him – he'd never been an especially tidy roommate – but I think he was impressed by its sheer size in comparison to his own tent.  He traversed the few steps to the still and inspected it closely.

"Not bad," he commented.  "You could get a better yield though, with a few adjustments."

"I'll have you know this beauty produces the finest ambrosia in Asia," I informed him with a snort, standing behind him and trying to see what he was so intent on.

"I think it's already killed off more of your brain cells than you could stand to lose," he retorted with a sidelong glance at me.  He carefully prodded the stiff metal coil wrapping around the top.  "You need a looser coil.  Or you could try wrapping this one in foil."  He bent to survey the heating element below the round beaker.  "Can this plate produce any more heat?"

"It's Army-issue," I said by way of explanation.  "We're lucky it works at all."

"That doesn't exactly fill me with hope and faith in the Army experience," Drew remarked dryly.

"And breakfast did?" I asked with an arched brow.

"Touché."

I heard the door to the tent slam shut and turned to see Trapper wearing a bemused expression.  He shot me a questioning look, obviously wondering why the guy I'd hated yesterday was now standing inside our tent, and I replied with a minute shrug of one shoulder.  I'd come up with some explanation for him later, when we were alone.

Drew sketched a smart salute in my bunkmate's direction that appeared, for all intents and purposes, to demonstrate respect for a superior officer.  I knew better; the only person Drew respected was himself.  "Sorry to intrude, Captain," he said, the ostensible essence of politeness.  "We were just leaving."

Trapper's eyebrows shot upward, and I hurriedly cut off whatever he'd been about to say with a facetious explanation:  "Drew here can't find his way to the shower with a map, a Sherpa guide, and a trail of breadcrumbs."  I snagged my towel from its hiding place – behind my cot – and made for the door with Drew close behind.  "I have to go explain the concept of a pull chain to him so he won't be stinking up the camp within the week."

After casting a dubious look in my direction, Trapper shrugged off his obvious skepticism.  "Have fun, you two," he gibed suggestively.

"Count on it," I replied with a smirk before opening the door and shuddering at the breeze that blew up my robe.

When we reached the shower Drew _did_ seem to enjoy himself as he watched me strip, and his eyes wandered for the entirety the shower.

"Have you gotten smaller?" he asked after we'd stepped under the (thankfully, for once) cold streams of water, staring down into my stall at my frozen bits.

I glared at him, straightening fully in order to look down at him by all of two inches.  "I don't know.  Have you ever seen me douse myself in water that's two degrees from freezing the pipes?"

He grinned good-naturedly before changing the subject to what I knew had been on his mind since Trapper's comment.  "So, are you and McIntyre…?"

I laughed at the undertone of jealousy in his question.  "No.  He's just got a great sense of humor for a straight guy."

"I saw the way he looks at you," Drew pressed.  I guessed he meant yesterday in the O.C. and just now in the Swamp, because I couldn't think of any other interactions they may have had in my presence.  Well, there was his brief trip to the O.R., but I doubted Drew's observational skills were at peak efficiency at the time, even if Trapper had been looking my way.

"First off, that's a pretty limited sample size.  And secondly, I think you're looking too hard for something that isn't there," I told him patronizingly.  "He's my best friend, and he enjoys taking a joke as far as he can.  That's it."

Drew grunted, not necessarily convinced, but moved on.  "So, are you with anyone in camp?"

I snickered.  "Every nurse I can get my hands on."

"Hmph."  Drew had always held my attraction for women in contempt, as if I was cheating by playing both sides of the field.  I guess I didn't blame him; staunch homosexuals had a definite disadvantage in American culture compared to someone who could still have relationships that conformed to society's expectations.  "No boyfriends?"

"Boyfriends are kind of dangerous in the Army, Drew," I warned him quietly.  "I mean, if I meet a guy on R&R, sure, why not?  As long as we're discreet.  But around camp?  I might as well go beg Henry for a dishonorable discharge right now."

"Henry, the C.O. I met last night?"

"Yeah.  He's a good guy – he wouldn't turn someone in for that sort of thing if he didn't have to – but he also wouldn't be able to stop someone like Frank from reporting any perceived ' _perversion_ ' to the powers that be."

"Frank?"

"Frank Burns.  One of our 'doctors.'"  I seesawed a hand back and forth to indicate that the description wasn't 100% accurate.  "Better known as Ferret Face."  Drew let out a startled chuckle.  "He's my other bunkmate.  In addition to being medically incompetent, he's so gung-ho G.I. that he'd turn his own daughter in for playing footsies with another girl at recess."  I met his dark chocolate eyes and told him gravely, "Watch yourself, and especially around him.  He already tried to ruin one kid's life over a simple rumor."  Never mind that that rumor had been true.  I let a victorious smirk spread over my face.  "Trapper and I took care of _that_."  The smile faded.  "But the fink's a sanctimonious snake.  Don't be careless."

Ha.  'Don't be careless.'  I was wasting my breath and I knew it.  Drew was cocky, reckless, and impulsive.  If I had any sense I'd put as much distance between us – physical and emotional – as I could in preparation for the day he got himself caught.  But as I studied his face, watching the way his eyes settled on my mouth, observing his tongue dart out to moisten his lips, the most I could do was step to the far end of my stall when he leaned in for the kiss.

My reproachful look met his playful pout, and this time he was the one who surrendered first.  "So where does that leave us?" he asked, appearing mildly abashed – _appearing_ being the key word; I sincerely doubted that he felt any actual chagrin over his attempt.

I knew I should tell him that whatever we had was over – that that ship had sailed – and that sex wasn't worth risking my career.  I knew I should disentangle myself from his web before I wound up a silk-covered bundle, immobilized and completely at the mercy of a selfish prick whose only concept of conscience came from a dictionary.  But the only word that came when I opened my mouth was:  "Careful."  I sighed at my lack of willpower, but quietly laid out my conditions.  "No kissing or fondling or whatever in camp.  I know of a few places we can sneak off to at night, but you have to let me lead, since you're obviously even shorter on common sense and self-control than _I_ am."  And as I was jumping from a plane with no parachute and with complete knowledge of the type of disaster that could be waiting at the bottom, that was pretty damn short.

He took my gibe with good humor, which was nice but not necessarily expected.  Drew was nothing if unpredictable.

Then again, there were some things I really should have seen coming.

 

·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·

 

Trapper, Drew, and I were lounging around a small table in the Officer's Club following dinner (and, in Drew's case, the barfing thereof).

"For being 'not so friendly' you two sure seem pretty friendly," Trapper had noted when I'd returned from the shower, alone, to the Swamp.  I'd made some noise about how we'd ended badly as roommates at Androscoggin, how we'd talked things over and ironed out our differences the night before, and Trap hadn't pressed further, though I was pretty sure he was just choosing not to call me out on my bullshit.

Despite whatever reservations he may have had, he was making an effort to get along with Drew for my sake, and I appreciated it.  Several rounds of martinis and scotch were helping that effort along, and we were all laughing at one of Drew's colorful stories of our two years together in college when Lieutenant Bigelow approached.

"Well well well, what have we here?" I let my grin fade into a coy smile and, when it was clear that I was the object of her attention, pulled her down into my lap, wrapping my arms around her waist.

"Hawkeye," she giggled in what was not quite a protest, "I have an opening on my schedule for tonight's movie.  It's _Bedtime for Bonzo_ , and I've only seen it twice."  She raised her eyebrows expectantly.  "You still want to take me to a flick?"

I couldn't stop my eyes from sliding to Drew's suddenly stony expression, but gave a mental shrug and kept my smile fixed in place.  "You know, I think I can pencil you in," I told her mischievously.  "I wasn't watching very closely the first few times I went – why don't we go not pay attention to it again?"  By the time I made it to the end of that sentence my devilish grin was back of its own accord.

"Sounds good.  Pick me up around 8?"

"I'll bring the refreshments," I confirmed smugly, reluctantly loosening my hold on her as she stood.

"Actually, I have fudge," she said as she slowly retreated back toward the gaggle of nurses at the jukebox.

I stood and caught her in one long stride, looping my arms around her back and bringing my face close to hers.  "Let's save the fudge for after the movie," I suggested quietly, a lecherous smile on my face.

I watched the same smile blossom on hers.  "You know, that's not a bad idea."

"What'd you expect?  The only ideas I get are good, great, and brilliant," I quipped, releasing her again and returning to my seat.

Trapper sent me an appreciative smirk, likely jealous of what I was going to be doing with the fudge after the movie.  The jealousy I caught on Drew's face, though, was of an entirely different variety, and I was suddenly worried that if I didn't get him out of there, and soon, he would explode messily in front of the entire club.  I locked eyes with him, flicked mine toward the door, and stood again as I finished my martini.

"Well, I've got to go spruce up," I said in a deceptively lighthearted tone, heading for the door.  Never mind that I had an hour and a half before I was due for my date and had already showered mere hours ago.

I heard Drew's chair being forcefully pushed back as I passed and felt a bit vulnerable with my back to him.  I didn't think he'd hit me or anything, but he had gotten somewhat physical in the past:  a shove, a rough grab, a hard squeeze on occasion.  So my skin crawled as I felt his seething presence behind me.

As soon as the door closed behind us, there came that rough grab.  Drew's fingers dug into my bicep as he hauled me behind the O.C.

"What the fuck, Hawk?!"  He pulled me to a stop, spinning me with a bit of English so that I was facing him.

I was prepared and undaunted.  "Lower your voice," I ordered, tone steely.

"Fine," he hissed.  "You want to explain what just happened in there?!"

"I got a date," I said flatly.

"A date," he echoed incredulously.  "You're going to fuck her."

"Here's hoping," I replied with exaggerated anticipation, a plastic smile, and a waggle of eyebrows.

He seemed taken aback.  "And you don't see anything wrong with that?"

I dropped the pretense.  "No, actually, I don't."  Defiance laced my tone.  "'A little sex' – that's what you said.  'A little sex' – that's what you wanted.  We're not going fucking _steady_.  You have no reason to be jealous."  I let that sink in for a moment.  When he drew a breath in preparation for a reply I continued, trying to keep him off-balance.  "I date the nurses here, okay?  You don't think it would be a _little_ suspicious if I stop pursuing them as soon as you show up?"  I took a couple of deep breaths, letting him consider that too, and then switched gears.  "Also, let me remind you that in this situation you don't have a leg to stand on."

Yeah, I was bringing up ancient history, but it was relevant.  When we were dating he'd had problems with fidelity, and no qualms about lying about those lapses – or not lying, if the mood struck him.  I vividly recalled the time I'd discovered that he had taken another man on _my_ bed, as evidenced by conspicuous stains on my bedspread that Drew hadn't even tried to clean up – all just another part of his mind games.  I'd really flipped my lid over that one.  And after each of our breakups he would parade a long line of lovers in front of me to simultaneously hurt me and make me jealous.  I hated to admit that it was fairly effective.

What it boiled down to was this:  Drew had a jealous streak a mile wide, a possessiveness to match, and a talent for making me feel worthless even as he fought for my attentions.  And I was done being manipulated by him.

Strangely, though, I think he really did care for me.  Deep down.  As much as it was possible for him to care for anyone, that is.

He softened.  "I just…."  He tenderly rubbed my arm where his fist had squeezed so tightly earlier.  "I just hate seeing you with _them_."  I guessed he meant women, but I was pretty sure he'd be just as unhappy about seeing me with another man.

"You're going to have to figure out a way to deal with it, Drew," I said gently but uncompromisingly.  "This is just how it is now."

"I don't know if I can do that," he all but whispered, hurt contorting his face.  It was hard to tell with him, but I thought the emotion was genuine.

"It's either that or request a transfer," I told him bluntly.

"No!" he said with sudden vehemence.  "I just—  I just found you!  I don't want—  I _can't_ lose you again."  He caressed his way down my arm, tangling my fingers with his when he reached my hand.

"Then you're going to have to exercise some self-control," I informed him frankly, softening my words with a squeeze of my hand.

He let out a frustrated sigh and jerked his head in some semblance of a nod.  "Alright.  Self-control.  I'll work on it."

I shook my head at his doubtful expression.  He was such a master of manipulating others; why was it so hard for him to control himself?

 

·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·

 

By the time I'd shaved, splashed on a bit of Trapper's cologne (I'd run out of mine the previous week), and filled a canteen full of gin, I was able to maintain my focus on my current date.  I picked Bigelow up at precisely 8:00, acting the perfect gentleman until the lights were turned off.  By the end of the movie I realized that I still had no idea what _Bedtime for Bonzo_ was all about.  I knew from prior Bonzo movies that Bonzo was a chimp, and I'd recognized Ronald Reagan playing the main character (a professor of some sort).  But plot?  Character names?  Not a clue.

Oh well.  It was time to move the entertaining activities to a more private location.

I stopped by the office to requisition Radar's key to the laundry room, and then proceeded to demonstrate to Bigelow the erotic potential of fudge.  We took our sweet time (pun intended), enjoying every sensation to the fullest, and by the time I returned to the Swamp I was exhausted – physically, from the marathon sex session, and emotionally, from that evening's earlier rollercoaster ride, courtesy of Drew and his jealousy.  I barely got my clothes off before falling asleep in a tangle of blankets, the sweet taste of chocolate and Bigelow in my mouth.

 


	4. Dependable

The next afternoon's six-hour O.R. session marked the first postponement of Henry's scheduled monthly lecture to the enlisted men, which Trapper and I had been so looking forward to:  how to detect and receive treatment for the various venereal diseases running rampant throughout the ranks, plus an explanation of some new Army initiative designed to hamper the V.D. epidemic.  As doctors, the medical part of the subject matter would be familiar territory, but we'd placed bets on how far Henry would get through the lecture before making a run for it.  I was giving him the benefit of the doubt:  a blanket coverage of V.D. in general with no mention of symptoms or treatments.  Trapper was betting that he wouldn't make it through the introduction before bolting.  Unfortunately for Henry, the Army was pretty desperate to reduce the loss of manpower experienced during certain V.D. treatments, as well as what had to be massive expenditures on various prophylaxes and medications.

Trapper and I were repeatedly disappointed over the next few busy days as wounded continued to arrive at a steady pace.  Finally we had a full day of no new patients, and Henry reluctantly scheduled his lecture for that afternoon.  The tent was packed before he even arrived.  The only notable absence was Father Mulcahy.  Apparently the priest had checked the bulletin board before the lecture this time.

I'd tried to instill Drew with some of my enthusiasm, but for some strange reason he wasn't sold on the idea of a V.D. lecture as entertainment.  He sat dubiously on my left, while Trapper, to my right, elbowed me into upping the ante on our bet.

"Twenty," he bid with a poorly-suppressed smile.

I called his raise.  "Alright, twenty.  _But_ , he doesn't have to say the name of the disease or use any medical terms."  Trap wasn't pleased with my stipulations, but I reminded him:  "I'm placing a wager here, not banking on a miracle."

"Okay, okay, fine," he allowed with a grin and a rueful shake of his head.

Henry walked in right on time, appearing somewhere between nervous and terrified.  "Alrighty, men, settle down," he said with a tremor in his voice, as Radar propped up a new poster – for once a semi-helpful list of steps that the men were to take if they suspected that they'd been exposed to V.D., as opposed to the uninformative cartoon scare tactics that the Army usually preferred, or the familiar non-faces of Figure A and Figure B.

The crowded tent only fell silent, unsurprisingly, when Radar shouted above the din.  Once their collective attention was caught, though, everyone settled quickly into a seat, seemingly quite eager to get down to watching Henry become a basket case in six seconds flat.  I knew I was.

"Now, uh, thanks for making it to the lecture, you guys.  I know we've had a rough few days, and I apologize for all the reschedules.  In the interests of keeping this brief, let's all listen quietly, behave, and get this over with as painlessly as possible."  Henry waited for the tittering to die down.  "Now, I'm supposed to tell you men about this new program that the Army's implementing in regards to… to, uh…."  Mouth agape, he scanned the sea of expectant faces before trying a different tack.  "Well, you see, if you find yourself with a… certain problem…."  Once again, he trailed off, looking lost, before turning in desperation to the poster beside him.  "Well, first of all, report for treatment right away, that being the most important thing to do, ah, first."  With his wooden pointer Henry smacked the poster, where the same step was already clearly spelled out, albeit more concisely.  I heard a few chuckles break out behind me at either Henry's vague lecturing style or how he'd essentially resorted to reading off the list that everyone present was already perfectly capable of understanding on their own.  "And, the Army wants you to—to undergo a process called contact tracing, where you try to, er, pinpoint the—the origin of your… certain problem, which would allow the Army to document the, uh, source so that she can be... documented, to prevent someone else from becoming infected with that certain problem themselves."

My hand shot up and I tried not to start laughing before I even got the question out.

Henry pretended not to notice my raised arm.  "Now, being stationed at a MASH outfit already, you won't have to go to a Pro-Station like, well, most of the other boys who come down with, ah, with this problem…."

I waved my arm vigorously until the C.O. finally sighed, shook his head, and asked with obvious dread:  " _What_ , Pierce?"

"What, exactly, might this _certain problem_ be?" I asked mischievously, unable to suppress a wide grin.  I heard Trapper on my right attempting, quite unsuccessfully, to stifle a laugh.

Henry looked irritated, knowing full well that I, and every other man in attendance with the exception of, perhaps, Radar, was well aware of the topic of the discussion.  He opened his mouth, likely to point that out to me, then paused and looked around the tent, seeming to remind himself that he was, after all, supposed to be explaining the subject at length.  "Well.  Ah.  Well, there's a number of different… sorts of… this kind of problem, all of which are spread, uh, through… through contact with certain types of women."

I tried – I really tried – to assemble a politely attentive expression, but I just couldn't keep the corners of my mouth from curling upwards.

"And what types would those be?" Trapper prompted when Henry seemed to have stalled, eschewing raising his hand after he saw how effective it had been for me.

Our C.O. fixed us with an exasperated glare but pasted a tight smile on his face.  "You know, you two are more than welcome to come up here and give this lecture yourselves," Henry pointed out, rather threateningly in my opinion.  "In elaborate detail."  Yep, definitely threatening.

"But you're doing such a great job of it," I cackled.  I'd fully intended a straight delivery.  And failed miserably.

Upon seeing my heroic struggle for some – any – sort of seriousness, Trapper cracked up, falling onto my shoulder and grabbing my arm to hold himself more or less upright.  Our humor spread to the nearby enlisted men, and the effects snowballed until the rest of the tent had followed our cue.  As I laughed I looked around and realized that the only people without at least a grin on their faces were Henry, Frank, Hot Lips, a puzzled Radar, and… and Drew.  Drew, who was sitting forward on our bench, watching Trapper lean against my shoulder with a grim expression.

Henry had obviously had enough.  "Okay," he said over the din, "well, if you men find yourselves stuck with this _certain problem_ , you go to these two clowns," he said smugly, pointing at me and Trapper with his wooden stick.  "Play show-and-tell, go into lots of detail, and I'm sure they will be _thrilled_ to be the 4077's 'certain problem' doctors."  He shot us a look that practically screamed 'serves you right.'  "Dismissed," he said to the tent at large.  In two long strides he swept out of the mess hall.

Drew sent me a glare and followed Henry out of the door at a fast clip.  I sighed, feeling the humor slip from my face.  Prior experience told me that Drew wanted me to follow him, to ask him what was wrong, and then to listen meekly while he dressed me down for whatever had angered him this time, but I was done playing his games.

Trapper, seeing my expression, looked warily from me to the door Drew had nearly knocked off its hinges.  His grin faded in turn, but I pounced on a distraction before he could remark on the corporal's behavior.

"You owe me twenty bucks," I told him, affecting smugness.

His eyes narrowed for a split second but he mercifully didn't bring up my friend's dramatic exit.  "Oh, come on, Hawk," he wheedled, letting me off the hook.  "That lecture didn't even break five minutes, and most of it was Henry stuttering."

"Hey, you're the one who said he wouldn't make it through the introduction."  I pointed to the poster still standing innocuously at the front of the tent.  "He got to step two."  I held out my hand, palm up.  "Pay up, bunkie."

"Eh, I left my wallet in my other pants."

"Yeah, well, don't forget I know where you live."

 

·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·

 

 After finishing my shift in Post-Op I retired to the Swamp.  I knew that Drew was off sulking somewhere, waiting for me to hunt him down as some part of a passive-aggressive maneuver designed to test how much I cared about him.  So I pointedly didn't go out to the O.C. or Rosie's or anywhere else where I could potentially run into him.

Drew made contact first.  I was sipping unusually smooth lighter fluid from my martini glass in the deserted Swamp.  (When the alcohol was given more than two hours to age due to multiple marathon O.R. sessions we tended to get a decently palatable batch – assuming no one forgot to stock the still.)  Frank had disappeared with Margaret after dinner and Trapper had relieved me on Post-Op duty, so I was mildly surprised at the knock on the door.

"Entrez," I called, looking up from my magazine.  I felt my expression become guarded when Drew stepped through the door.  "You finally get tired of the passive-aggressive bullshit and decide to just come by and yell at me already?" I asked, a bit bitterly.

He ignored my sniping.  "How's it going?" he asked, tone subdued and eyes averted.

I eyed him warily.  "Like you actually want to know."

One corner of Drew's mouth quirked upward as I called him out and I tried to ignore how absolutely adorable his expression was.  He had a seat in the chair next to my cot and I could smell the alcohol fumes emanating from him even over the flavor of my own gin.

"I need a favor," he finally admitted, slurring his words slightly.

"Uh huh."  Why was I not surprised?

"Major Houlihan put me on report."

And now he wanted me to bail him out of his trouble.  Well _that_ didn't take long.  "What for?"

"Well... I was a li'l drunk when I went on guard duty earlier today, and, uh, I _might_ 've snuck off a few times to have a drink or three at that Korean bar across the street."

I shook my head at his idiocy.  "Yeeeah, there's no way I'm going to be able to get you out of _that_ one," I informed him before turning my attention back to my magazine.  Even if I'd wanted to, there was no smoothing over something that stupid.  Not that I was feeling so inclined at that moment, regardless.

"She stuck me with guard duty again for tonight, as punishment I guess."

I shrugged, flipping a page.  "Could've been worse.  You could've gotten K.P."

Drew grunted noncommittally.

"You… might want to sober up before they change the guard," I advised, lowering the magazine again to more thoroughly assess his level of inebriation.  Drew grimaced.  "What time does your shift start?" I asked him suspiciously.

"Uh.  Five minutes ago," he said sheepishly.

"Brilliant," I muttered with a roll of my eyes.  I climbed out of my cot and crossed to Trapper's side of the tent.  After a bit of rummaging around I came up with a stick of gum.  Thrusting it in Drew's direction, I advised, "Chew this while you go take the fastest shower of your life."

He clumsily plucked the gum from my fingers, then eyed me with obvious disappointment.  "So you're not going to help me?"

"I just did!" I said in exasperation with a wave of my hands.  "This isn't Androscoggin," I emphasized.  "There's no sweet-talking your professors into giving you an extra day on your project because you were 'sick.'  This is the _Army_.  There are consequences for slacking off, and if you don't get your ass in gear you're going to become more well-acquainted with those consequences than I think you really want to be."

"Alright, alright, fine," Drew grumbled.  He stood and took a quick step toward me.  I pulled back, not knowing what to expect, but he simply ran his hand gently over my face, tracing my lips with his thumb.  I guessed that it was his way of showing affection without angering me with his blatancy.  I gave him a half smile and then a gentle push toward the door.

"Hurry," I reminded him softly.

Popping the gum into his mouth, he rushed off to the showers.

 

·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·

 

 In my dream I was back by the creek, sandwiched between Drew and the hard boulder in the darkness, wanly lit by a half moon.  The rough surface of the rock was uncomfortable against my back, but my passion once again overruled the physical discomfort.  As before, Drew's breaths were heavy and labored, but his movements were off and when a warm liquid began cascading over my torso I realized that something was very, very wrong.  I pushed his unresisting body off me, quickly rolling him onto his back on the top of the boulder that I'd just vacated.  My hands swept over his chest and I found that his shirt was saturated with blood.  The coppery smell assaulted my senses as panic shot through my body.  Hastily yanking the soaked shirt off over his limp arms, my heart skipped a few beats when I saw a gaping wound where his smooth chest used to be.  His lungs were laid bare and blood jetted powerfully from his aorta with each beat of his heart, liberally spraying my face and neck.

"Drew, you're going to be okay," I said desperately even as I felt his blood dripping down my face.  "I'll fix you.  Don't worry, you'll be fine."

I balled up his t-shirt and pressed it to his ruined chest, but it was almost instantly soaked through, as if by magic, and the pressure I put on it didn't seem to be of any help at all.  He moaned pitifully and I actually felt his lungs deflate through the makeshift dressing.  They didn't expand again, but blood continued to gush from the wound.  I felt the strong spurts even through the mound of fabric in a surreal fashion that could only seem physically possible in dreams, and looked around the creek bed frantically, as if a clamp would miraculously appear nearby, only to find piles of bloodied gauze littering the ground.  My hands were dripping in the warm liquid, and soon I was drenched in what was certainly more blood than any one body could possibly hold.

Shifting around his body while maintaining pressure on his chest, I used one hand to open his mouth, leaving bloody fingerprints on his pale skin.  I caressed his lips with mine and forced secondhand air into his lungs.

"Drew, listen to me," I pled as I waited to see if his body would respond.  I felt his blood coursing down the arm holding pressure on his wound, flowing steadily from my elbow onto the stones at my feet and into my right boot, which soon began overflowing.  "Stay with me.  I'll save you.  I can save you."

But I couldn't.  He was bleeding out, and all I could do was stand impotently at his side without a clamp to my name, watching the life fade from his eyes in the soft moonlight.  Soon the pulsing of his heart came to a stop, bereft of any fluid left to pump.

"Drew, no.  Please, no."  I cupped his unnaturally white face with blood-covered hands.  "I love you.  I wanted you to know that I love you.  Don't leave me.  Please don't leave me," I begged urgently.  But it was too late.  He was gone.  His dark eyes clouded, fixed unseeing at the stars.  I'd failed.  I couldn't save him, and he died not knowing that I loved him.  Devastated, I draped myself over his suddenly cold corpse in a mockery of the position we'd been in several moments earlier and shivered.

I woke in my cot in a cold sweat, still shivering, and realized that I'd kicked my blanket to the floor.  For a moment I could still feel Drew's lifeblood covering my hands and sliding down my face.  I realized with great relief that the wetness on my cheeks were tears and not my friend's (lover's?) blood.

I snatched the blanket from the floor and pressed it to my chest as if I were the one hemorrhaging, curling my legs up around the cloth to provide extra pressure.

I didn't love him... did I?I trembled and felt a couple of sobs wrench their way from my throat, just barely managing to pull the blanket up in time to muffle the sounds.  No.  No, I'd learned my lesson last time.  I wasn't going down that road again.

Despite my denials, a nagging doubt took root in the back of my mind:  if I wasn't in love with him, then where the hell had that vivid emotion from my dream come from?  And why had it had such a powerful effect on me?  I lay there for several minutes, collecting myself, thankful that I hadn't woken my bunkmates with my cries.

Once my breathing was under control I made myself loosen my grip on the blanket and uncurl my legs.  I shakily swung my feet to the floor and rose, knowing that there was no way I'd have the courage to fall back asleep, had that even been possible.

Coffee.  Yes, coffee would fix this.  _Something_ certainly had to.  I snagged my robe, hastily wrapping it around myself, and fled the tent as silently as I could, as if running away from the Swamp would distance me from that nightmare.

The temperature outside the tent quickly informed me that I should probably have grabbed my jacket as well, but I was too rattled to bother returning to fetch it.  I made my way quickly toward the mess tent.

"Halt!"  I heard a very familiar voice call out to me, tone teasing.  I almost collapsed in both shock and relief.  "What's the password?" Drew asked playfully, shifting his rifle to attention.

I quickly switched directions, nearly running headlong into his body.  I buried my face in the crook of his neck and shoulder, pressing myself to him and ignoring the weapon sandwiched between us that dug uncomfortably into my chest and abdomen.

"Woah there, honey."  Confusion and concern colored his tone.  "You okay?" he asked before realizing the very obvious answer to that question.  "What's wrong?"

I took a deep breath, comforting myself with his scent, and resisted his effort to push me away.  Eventually he distanced himself from me long enough to swing the rifle over his shoulder, then pulled me into his solid embrace.

"Hawk, you're shaking.  You've got to be freezing."  He gently guided me to a nearby bench and, sitting me down, settled closely beside me, taking my bare hands with his gloved ones.  With a furtive glance around, he pulled open his coat, lifted his shirt, and pressed my cold hands to his warm (whole, undamaged) torso, jumping slightly at the contact with my cold skin.  "What's wrong?" he asked again softly.

I shook my head, leaning into his warmth.  "Bad dream," I explained succinctly.

He pressed his hands to mine through his shirt, silently encouraging me to leave them warming against his skin, then lifted one arm to wrap it around my shoulders, pulling me close.  His other hand smoothed my hair and stroked my face, wiping away the remnants of my tears.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart."  With another surreptitious scan of the compound he pressed a kiss to my temple, then rested his forehead against my bowed head.  I was honestly too shaken to be worried about being spotted.  "Is there anything I can do?"  He paused a moment in thought as I remained silent, taking comfort our closeness.  "You want some coffee?"

A heartfelt half-smile formed on my lips and I found myself feeling grateful for how well he knew me.  "I was just heading to the mess tent for a cup, actually."

"Let's go brew some fresh," he suggested, gently pulling me to my feet.  I let him escort me to the deserted tent, tucking my significantly warmer hands under my armpits but keeping my side pressed against his for the short walk there.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked tenderly as he parked me at the nearest table.  He chivalrously pulled off his heavy jacket and draped it over my shoulders before busying himself with the coffee dispenser.

"Not really," I replied tersely.  It wasn't something I really wanted to reflect upon at all.  I never took my eyes off him, irrationally afraid that if I looked away I'd turn back to find him gushing blood.

"Okay," he said, tone positive and supportive.  "If you change your mind, I'll be here all night."

I gave him another smile, this time managing to curl both corners of my mouth up slightly.  "Thanks, Drew."

He graced me with a fond smile of his own.  "Anytime."

I found myself wishing that that could be the truth, but I knew that one thing I could depend on him for was to not be dependable.

Finally the smell of coffee permeated our area of the tent and he brought me a steaming mug shortly after, taking one for himself and settling in beside me, pressing his side to mine.  He again stretched his free arm over my shoulders, rubbing my bicep reassuringly through my robe and his jacket.  Still a bit spooked, and secure in the knowledge that the compound was utterly deserted, I nestled my head against his shoulder, only breaking contact to take sips from the mug.  Between the warmth of the coffee and the warmth of the man beside me, I was eventually calmed enough to return to bed.  The caffeine didn't seem to have its usual kick, and I fell asleep soon after settling into my cot.  I didn't dream again.

 


	5. An Ode to the Still

We were woken at dawn by the sound of choppers.  The O.R. was in full swing for a good fifteen hours, and the only thing that seemed to be keeping both Drew and I on our feet was a copious amount of caffeine.  I noticed that Drew seemed to be slowly getting used to the blood and gore.  He was in and out, bearing patients from X-ray to empty tables, and while he averted his eyes from the actual operations, he was no longer running for the exit at the unavoidable sight of blood and gore.

I complimented him on his progress while we were settled around a table in the O.C., unwinding from the busy day.  Trapper had lost a patient that he'd worked on for nearly three hours and was understandably depressed, so I was helping in the best way I knew how – keeping the drinks coming until he eventually passed out.

Much to my amusement, Nurse Kellye approached and asked Drew, of all people, if he'd like to dance.

I'd noticed that the attitudes of his fellow inmates at the 4077 ranged from camaraderie and fondness to (more rarely) exasperation and resentment.  His natural charisma and allure was offset by his poor work ethic and unabashed manipulation of his colleagues, though the vast majority of them either didn't seem to notice or hadn't yet fallen victim to his machinations.  The nurses loved his sweet smiles, coy remarks, and distinct lack of wanton behavior, but as far as I knew none of them had actively pursued him until that night, even if it was just for a chaste dance.

"I'm sorry, honey," he told her with a charming smile, "but I have a sweetheart back home and it just wouldn't feel right."  For all I knew he might have a boyfriend – I hadn't asked, he hadn't offered, and by that point I didn't really want to know – but fidelity wasn't the issue on the table.  Nor did Drew really mind having to pretend with women up to a certain extent.  It was all just part of the game to him, but apparently that night he didn't feel like playing.  I strongly suspected that it was due at least in part to his hesitancy to leave me alone with a very drunk Trapper while I was pretty inebriated myself.

After about an hour we carried my practically-unconscious bunkmate back to the Swamp and got him settled in bed.  Drew watched with a dark expression as I carefully arranged him on his cot and removed his boots, draped his heavy jacket over his torso for additional warmth, then tucked his winter blanket around him, cursing the Korean autumn for being so damn cold.

To mollify Drew – before even one word was said – I grabbed the blanket from my cot and led him down toward the minefield.

Cloaked in the darkness of a new moon, Drew and I lounged together in a somewhat rare moment of intimate affection.  Settled on the blanket, he was sitting up, propped up by one arm stretched behind him, and I was draped against him with my back to his chest, surrounded by his outstretched legs.  His free arm was wrapped around me and his fingertips traced lazy circles over my stomach.

"No one will ever care about you like I do," he murmured contemplatively, pressing a soft kiss to my neck.  The sad thing was that I could tell he was being completely sincere.  He really had no concept of anything that could be remotely considered a healthy relationship.

With a parade of memories of how he'd 'cared' for me in the past, including the reason we were currently sprawled by a minefield in the cold, I let out an indelicate snort.  "I sure as hell hope not," I retorted thoughtlessly, my earlier martinis having temporarily rendered my brain-to-mouth filter out of order without even having the decency to notify me beforehand.

And just like that, I'd ruined the moment.  Drew's arm unwound from its gentle embrace and he withdrew brusquely.  I had to quickly shift my weight forward to avoid falling back against him, and bobbed drunkenly as I tried to catch my balance.

"You know, you're lucky I put up with your shit," he growled, transitioning instantly from tenderness to irritability, though there was a surprising undercurrent of flippancy in his tone.

That gave me pause, and my eyes narrowed for a short moment in contemplation.  "Yeah?" I asked with a peculiar mix of sarcasm and sincerity.  Was I lucky?  Was I _really_?  I wondered sometimes.  (All the time.)

I turned the tables on him with a viciousness that I doubted anyone but Drew could bring out in me.  "You're lucky I let you fuck me," I countered smugly, turning to face him, leaning back on my elbows and folding my legs Indian style to provide a bit of distance between us on the small blanket.  He scoffed, but eyed my position lustfully.  "You know I'm the best you'll ever have," I taunted him with a smirk.  Was that conceited?  Probably.  But it was also true.

"Yeah?  Prove it," he challenged me with a quirked eyebrow.

"I'm not in the mood," I half-lied, affecting disinterest.  Reflecting upon our F.U.B.A.R. relationship wasn't really something I'd consider a turn-on.  Then again, the subject matter was battling my fairly high level of intoxication and pretty low level of inhibitions, so it could be a toss-up either way.

"I bet," he replied huskily, slowly leaning forward like a predator stalking its prey.

"Blow me," I said dismissively, letting my eyelids fall to half-mast.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"  He lowered his head toward my crotch as a tease and slowly lowered the zipper of my trousers with his teeth, then peeled back the edges – also with his teeth – to bare my boxers.

And yeah, okay, that was somewhat erotic.

"Not really," I denied, keeping my tone bored.

He placed a hand on my chest and slowly pushed me onto my back, then straightened my legs so that I was straddling his torso.  "You can lie all you want, but your dick is telling a different story."

I rolled my eyes and fought to keep a smile off my face.  "It doesn't call the shots."  I cocked my head in thought, then added honestly, "Well, not _all_ of them, at least.  Maybe half.  Or three-quarters."

He shook his head with a chuckle, slowly pulling himself up my body, being sure to maintain a light friction on the bulge in my boxers the entire way.  "God.  You're just like I remembered.  You never shut up."

I laughed, surrendered to the inevitable, and attacked his neck with enthusiasm.

 

 ·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·

 

Drew took to spending a lot of time in the Swamp.  Frank initially protested, of course, at me allowing an enlisted man free run of Officer's Country, but Drew effectively addressed that issue himself in one masterful stroke.

"Oh, don't be such a stiff," he told Frank one evening after having split the entirety of the still three ways with me and Trapper.

Trap and I had been reclining in our bunks with Drew lounging on the chair between us and serving as our bartender when Frank came in, already irritated from his latest spat with Hot Lips and happy to find a convenient non-com upon whom he could unleash his frustrations.  At Drew's retort I exchanged a look of surprise with my bunkmate (the one that I liked) and levered myself into a sitting position, listing slightly as I waited for the impending showdown.  If I didn't live in the tent I would have paid money for entry.

Drew drunkenly flapped a hand in Frank's direction while the major stared at him in shock.  "We're practically family, y'know."  I honestly couldn't tell how much of Drew's words and body language were direct results of the alcohol the three of us had been marinating in and how much was an actual plan of attack.

Frank's jaw dropped and worked futilely for a moment before any sound came out.  "Wh—   _Excuse me?_ "

"Yeah, yeah.  Your wife's at Fort Wayne, right?"  Drew waited a moment for Frank's affirmation but soldiered on when it became clear that the major was too taken aback to respond, slurring every other word, and I recognized the hook Drew had just set out for what it was – the beginning of his ploy.  He was more sober than he was letting on.  "Well I got family there, too."  I was willing to bet my medical degree and every cent I'd been paid since arriving in this godforsaken country that that was a bald-faced lie.  "I betcha they'd be _thrilled_ to meet the wife of one of the brave men I'm servin' under over here.  It'd be touching, really, to have our loved ones be able to share the... the _anguish_ they must feel at us bein' so far away an' all."  It was a bit terrifying how absolutely sincere Drew sounded.  "Next letter I send home I'll tell 'em they should go meet your wife.  Have 'em get t' know each other, y' know?  Margaret, right?  Margaret Burns?"

Alarm crossed Frank's ferrety features as Trapper and I tried not to choke on our gin.  It took Drew several good thumps on my back before I'd coughed up most of the alcohol I'd inhaled, lungs burning.

"No, no, wait," Drew mumbled as he smacked my back, shaking his head as if our laughter had him realizing his mistake, and corrected himself.  "That's wrong.  Louise.  _Louise_ is the wife, right?  Margaret's your... your lady friend over here.  Yeah."  He nodded once, ostensibly having worked out his confusion.  "Major Houlihan."  He waved his hand again to 'reassure' Frank.  "Don' worry.  I'll get it right in the letter."

"You can't threaten a superior officer!" Frank barked indignantly once he'd gathered what passed for his wits.  "That's—that's blackmail!"

" _Blackmail?_ "  Drew feigned confusion, then shock, seeming appalled and hurt that Frank could even consider that he'd stoop to something so low.  "No, no sir.  No one's threatenin' anyone here," he assured the major soothingly.  "I'm sure once I get to know you better I'll be able to keep all the names straight.  Just so many people 'round here, y'know?"  Drew's delivery was impeccable, as usual.

After a moment of furious thought – I could practically see the smoke coming out of the major's ears as his gears spun frantically – Frank decided that conciliation was the way to go.  "Yes," Frank nearly giggled in his nervousness, attempting a mollifying smile and failing miserably.  "Right.  Of course."  He was obviously perturbed by the underlying threat and just as obviously unsure of how to get himself out of the snare Drew had caught him in.  But he didn't put forth any further argument, and that was that.

Drew continued to pass his free time in the Swamp with me (and the free alcohol provided by the still) and subsequently became friendly with Trapper and Henry, who dropped by occasionally with a similar agenda.  Despite being frequently amused by his tall tales and dirty limericks – Trapper's favorite being a creative little ditty that Drew called "An Ode to the Still" – they both regarded him with a slight bit of caution, apparently honing in on (at least on some subconscious level) some of his sociopathic tendencies:  his manipulative nature, his shallow emotions, his callousness toward others, his sense of entitlement, his recklessness....  I don't know that they ever caught him in a lie, though – he was pretty well-practiced on that front – and I'm pretty sure that they never stumbled upon any of his cons, wherein he'd completely disregard the welfare of his mark and anyone else who was swept up in his wake for whatever fun or profit it bought him at the time.  So they became familiar with each other, laughed and joked together, but never quite became too attached.  Which was a relief, in my mind.  After all, if anyone at the 4077 got to know Drew half as well as I knew him, we were in trouble.  It would be seen in our eyes, in our body language, in the unspoken words that passed between us.  We would be outed, one way or another.  And I couldn't be sure hour to hour if Drew would be my life raft or the undertow.

 

 ·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·

 

Andrew pulled a chair up next to me at the sparsely occupied Officer's Club where I was nursing a drink to pass a boring late afternoon.  "Hey, babe," he said under his breath in a cheerful tone.

I threw him a mild glare for using the endearment in public, despite the fact that there was no one within hearing distance.  Surely the Army employed lip-readers to flush out commies and homosexuals.

"Oh, don't be that way, Hawk," he cajoled with those big, dark puppy-dog eyes, then flashed a mischievous grin in my direction.  "I came to ask you on a date."

My eyebrows shot for my hairline.  "A date?"  I looked around the bar but my hands-wide gesture indicated the entire camp.  "Don't you think that'd be a bit… conspicuous?"

Drew's grin slipped slightly.  "I was just thinking of dinner and a movie, not slow dancing in the Officer's Club."  I made sure to neglect to mention that Trapper and I had actually facetiously danced in public before with no real reaction from the camp.  It wouldn't do to encourage him, after all.  "Maybe a picnic for dinner, and then we can catch whatever's playing tonight."  His tone perked back up.  "Whatcha think?  Sound good?"

"A picnic?" I asked dubiously.

"Yeah.  I got that private, Igor, to donate a few sandwiches from the kitchen and some peanut brittle his mom sent him."

"You did, huh?"  That wasn't suspicious at all.  "And he gave them to you out of the goodness of his heart?"

"Of course.  What do you think I am, some sort of swindling fink?"  He looked sincerely hurt, like a kicked puppy with those big eyes, but between his phrasing and my intimate familiarity of his past history I had my doubts.  "It's no pistachio ice cream, I know, but I just... thought I'd do something nice for you.  And this seems to be as good as it gets over here."

I shook my head but felt a smile creep onto my face without my consent and found myself trying to excuse his actions.  I knew I shouldn't condone such behavior, that it would only serve to encourage him, but... what was done was done, right?  And I always did appreciate being courted.  Typically I found myself making the effort of the one doing the courting, and while that was usually fun, change was nice every once in a while.  It made a guy feel special.

Drew's sweet, hopeful expression returned when he saw my traitorous lips curl upward despite my best intentions.  "I only want to spend some quality time with you."

Well, that cinched it.  Consider me officially reeled in.

"A picnic sounds good," I admitted.  I thought for a moment, debating our options.  "There's a little hill a bit south of here.  The far side is out of sight from the camp, and no _guy_ would be taking a _girl_ outside when it's this chilly."

Drew's face lit up and I couldn't keep myself from mirroring his pleasure.

Later that night we had a pleasant meal on a blanket laid out on the hillside.  We laughed a lot, cuddled for a while, and managed to make it through the entire dinner without getting into a single argument.  I found myself feeling closer to our days back at Androscoggin rather than halfway across the world, three miles from the front lines of a war.  Between the picnic and the movie it was like a breath of fresh air in the eye of a storm.  Because that's what Andrew Kenna was:  a hurricane.  Dangerous, destructive, volatile, and a disarmingly beautiful force of nature.


	6. This Whole War Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the OCs in this chapter seem familiar to you, there's a reason for that. I decided to slip in a tribute to the first fandom I ever wrote fanfiction for: The Young Riders. It was a fairly obscure show so I'm not really expecting anyone to recognize the characters, but it made me happy.

A few days later Radar woke me up at some God-forsaken early hour of the morning.  I followed the apologetic clerk into Henry's tent with a sense of foreboding.  It was still dusk, and the damn birds were just getting started.

My commanding officer looked tired.  Like me, he obviously hadn't gotten anywhere near a full night's sleep, and he was just as obviously unhappy about it.  Well, either unhappy about that or about the news he was about to dump in my lap.  Either way, the situation didn't seem promising.

"Pierce," he greeted me soberly.  "Sorry to have to wake you up for something like this."

An apology from a sleepy, cranky Henry.  Oh yeah.  Less promising every second.

"We got a call from Battalion Aid," he continued.  "The station a few miles northeast of us got hit.  They've got a chest case that can't be moved – their medic."  Henry's mouth straightened into a grim line.  "I know you went last time, but they need a thoracic cutter P.D.Q. to get him out of there alive, and you're it."

I heaved a sigh and firmly pushed down a few upstart butterflies that had hatched in my stomach at Henry's words.  Battalion Aid.  Of course.  "Sounds delightful, Henry."  _Watch me be their next casualty_ , I thought caustically.  I mean, look at how my luck was running already.

I paused when I stumbled upon a silver lining in the potentially deadly situation:  it would give me a little time away from Drew and our last petty argument.  Knowing full well the probable course, I'd still climbed back onto the carousel of our undefined relationship – practically an Androscoggin redux – consisting of heartfelt affection interspersed with a fight every other day.  (We were currently bogged down in the latter.)   Sadly, there was no way I could claim with any amount of honesty that I couldn't have seen it coming from a mile away if I had only made myself look.

So, the glass-half-full standpoint was that at least I would get a break from Drew; an opportunity to hop off the carousel for a little while.  Provided, of course, that it didn't entail me going home in a coffin.  "Color me thrilled to help," I told my C.O.

Henry ignored me as I ran my mouth, and gestured to Radar.  "They also lost a corpsman, so I'm sending someone with you to help out until they get some relief, along with a few boxes of supplies they've requested.  The Jeep's being loaded now.  We've just got to pick the corpsman."

I nodded absentmindedly and, admittedly, a bit shakily.  At least I'd have company on the way to my prospective demise, though I doubted anyone would be able to measure up to Margaret's performance last time.

Radar appeared promptly with the personnel cards and Henry blindly plucked one from the pack.  Surprise, surprise:  the ever-so-fortunate corpsman was none other than Corporal Andrew Kenna.

Yep.  My luck was most definitely restricted to cards and women.

 

·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·

 

We made most of the ride in a sullen silence.  Unwilling to risk my life and limb before we even got near the front, I'd volunteered to drive.  Drew's reckless nature was never more manifest than when he was behind the wheel of close to two tons of steel moving at almost 60 mph.  And that was before factoring in things like snipers, mortars, mines, guerrillas... basically, an entire country out to kill us.  I'd take my chances behind the wheel, thank you very much.

For once Drew was the first to break the stalemate.  "So.  Uh.  What's the front like?" he asked, gamely attempting to pretend that he wasn't scared out of his wits.

I rolled my eyes at his mastery of segue.  There was no real way to explain what it was like until you'd seen it yourself... and since we would be arriving shortly, I elected not to waste my breath in attempt.  Sarcasm won out.  "It's not exactly on par with our last round of nine holes."  I smirked, though the expression was faintly brittle and mostly for show.  "If someone yells 'fore!' be sure to duck this time.  In the Army it's called 'taking cover.'"

"I'll try to keep that in mind," Drew grumbled, obviously irritated that I'd both blown off his question and had yet to let that golfing incident go.  But, really, who could take that out of their repertoire of things to tease someone mercilessly about?  Being knocked unconscious by an embarrassingly out-of-control golf ball was classic, lifelong fodder.

A short succession of explosions from about a mile to the north viciously wrenched us from our thoughts and made both of us jump nearly out of our skins.

"The hell was that?!"

"Mortars," I answered succinctly, tone grim.

"What do we do?!"  He grabbed one of the arms I was using to drive and almost yanked us off the road in his alarm.

"Well, one," I told him after steadying the Jeep, "stay calm."  I tried to keep my own fear (not terror or anything, just a small amount of apprehension – really) out of my tone.  "Two:  don't wreck our only means of escape."  I gulped an unsteady breath in, then blew it out of my nose just as shakily as I thought furiously.  "Three:  keep driving.  They're far enough away that they're not after us."  In deference to Drew's obviously fragile state of mind I didn't add the ' _yet_ ' that my brain so helpfully supplied.

"Can we go any faster?"  A glance toward Drew's side of the Jeep showed me his hunched shoulders and the perspiration beading below his helmet despite the chill.  He was white-knuckling the seat with one hand and the passenger-side door with the other.

I sent him an incredulous look.  "Do you know how to attach wings to a Jeep?"  At his frantic expression I decided a distraction was in order – for both of us.  "Just think:  you wanted to do this to people on a larger scale."

It seemed to pacify him slightly.  "Well, nuclear physics was interesting," he said, his manner abruptly almost comically dignified given the situation and the past ten seconds of panicked conversation.

"I'm sure that would be a comfort to those you killed with your bombs," I countered.  Another few mortars fell (thankfully not nearly as close as before) as if to punctuate my point.

Drew held his breath for a moment, waiting to hear if more were to follow, then picked up the conversation from where we'd left off before being so rudely interrupted.  "Yeah, but they're the enemy."  It wasn't said defensively.  More like just a piece of logic he was laying on the table.

"To them _we're_ the enemy," I pointed out.  "It all just depends on where you live, potentially whose side you're on, and who has the nuclear weapons."

Some of the tension slowly draining from his shoulders at the lack of further shelling, he shrugged noncommittally as we pulled into sight of the Battalion Aid station, effectively putting an end to our debate.  I would have felt better about escaping the mortars falling to the north of us if it didn't look like they'd beaten us there.  When we got close enough to fully survey the damage we both gaped at the wreckage.  It was obvious that one of those bombs had gone off nearly on top of it, and not too exceptionally long before, which I, personally, found a bit unnerving.  The charred station was partially demolished, but we could see aidmen still frantically ferrying newly-arriving wounded inside.

As soon as I stopped the Jeep I was on my feet and rushing into the shell of a… well, I couldn't call it a building anymore; it had two-and-a-half walls and two-thirds of a roof.  Inside I found conditions to be barely more favorable in terms of an operating field.  Clearly 'sterile' was not going to be part of the equation.  Three corpsmen bustled about, getting the more mobile wounded loaded into a truck, adjusting bandages, and starting a line on the new arrivals for the administration of plasma and morphine as needed.

Proximity to a handful of wounded soldiers helped push my fear and dismay to the back burner and I felt myself slip seamlessly into doctor mode.  Not wasting any time, I approached the battalion aid surgeon working efficiently on the leg of a moaning infantryman with a compound fracture.  "Hey, I'm your chest cutter.  Where's my patient?"

The small, wiry doctor wordlessly jerked his head toward another stretcher, pushed against one of the whole walls and slightly separate from the other wounded, where the injured medic was being tended by a blood-covered aidman.  Once he got a free hand he pointed at a small water tank hanging from a post.  "Wash up there," he instructed, then looked around.  "Where's your corpsman?"

"Hopefully bringing in supplies, but you might want to send someone to check on him.  He's fairly new to this whole war thing."

"Wonderful," the captain muttered under his breath, then called to a serviceman, "Hey, Ike – go out and check on that soldier and the supplies, would ya?  He's green."

I idly imagined how green Drew was going to be when he saw the mess inside the erstwhile aid station.  He'd been steadily improving, but this frenzied atmosphere combined with the sheer amount of carnage surrounding us was going to be putting what fortitude he'd developed in this godforsaken land to the test.

"Captain McCloud," the doctor said by way of introduction as he focused the majority of his attention on his current patient.

"Hawkeye Pierce," I replied as I scrubbed up.  Once I was as sterile as I was going to get in the ruined shell of a building I made a beeline for the chest case and got down to work, instructing the aidmen who introduced himself as Jimmy to serve as my assistant as I tried to get the wounded medic prepped for transport.  The makeshift nurse, a solidly-built kid with rugged features hidden under layers of grime and blood, assisted as best he could, but my efforts eventually turned by necessity from stabilization into honest-to-God surgery, albeit greatly hampered by the conditions of the aid station and the limited resources available.  As soon as I thought I had one lung patched up enough for him to travel I'd spot another leak somewhere else, and no matter how much plasma Jimmy pushed we couldn't pull our patient out of shock.  If we'd been at a MASH unit I likely would've been able to save him, but as it was the only blessing was that the man never regained consciousness.  When it came down to it, I was amazed at how tenaciously he'd clung to life for the time that I'd worked on him – much less however long it'd been before I'd gotten there.

Two hours later his time of death approximately marked the beginning of a barrage of mortars that landed disturbingly close by, immediately followed by a blessed lull in the influx of wounded.  Apparently new casualties were being routed to some other station that wasn't in imminent danger of being flattened.  One of the aidmen had accompanied the last bus back to the nearest MASH in attempt to keep a stomach case stable for the trip, and the doctor and two remaining corpsman finished cleaning up the aftermath left in the wake of the last batch of wounded.  I leaned up against the wall I'd been working by, trying to catch my breath and fighting the despair that had taken up residence in the pit of my stomach at my patient's death.  Drew, who I'd seen determinedly darting back and forth as he performed duties he'd never been trained for, finally found himself empty-handed and out of things to do.  Exhausted, he came to sit beside me, heedless of the still-tacky blood surrounding my position.  Looking around, I saw that there was virtually no square foot under the station's remaining roof that wasn't littered with dirt, debris, or bodily fluids.  When I slid down the wall to rest on the dirty floor, legs curled up near my chest, he mirrored my position and pressed up against me from shoulder to ankle, propping his forearms on his knees.  I could feel him shaking from fear, fatigue, or both.  I put an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close in effort to comfort both of us.  He smelled like dust, blood, and death.

After a quiet conversation between Jimmy and his captain in the 'doorway' of the ruined building, the young aidman approached and apologetically informed us that it wasn't safe to attempt a trip back to the 4077 due to the heavy shelling to our west.  When the battle shifted and their corpsmen and replacement medic arrived they apparently planned on packing up and moving the station a bit farther southeast.  I'd never thought that my MASH would have sounded like such a safe haven until the ground began to shake beneath me and dust started pouring from the partial ceiling with every thunderous reverberation, making me wonder if we were really better off sitting there rather than risking the open road.

Finally faced with a respite, Jimmy, Captain McCloud, and the other aidman, a blond corporal named Cody, formed a cozy line, propped up against the remaining wall perpendicular to ours under the area best covered by the remnants of the roof, though they weren't quite as attached at the hip (or shoulder, or knee) as Drew and I were.  Now that the crisis had passed they seemed to wither with exhaustion – it was remarkable how tiring terror could be once a body's adrenaline packed its bags and headed for the hills – and I saw all three of them sneaking morbid glances at the blanket-covered corpse of the medic who we hadn't had room to evacuate with the last busload:  the man I'd been sent there to save; who I'd failed.

"I'm sorry about your friend," I told them as their grief became palpable, managing to feel ashamed, guilty, and inept all at the same time.  There was no distraction to be had from his loss except the steady stream of explosions that continued to rain down not nearly far enough from our position for my comfort.  I wondered briefly (and maybe with a slight touch of hysteria) if the building sheltering us sported a giant red cross on what was left of its roof, painting a target for the North Koreans to aim for, and pressed my side to Drew's as if I could burrow under his skin and find safety.  He leaned into me, not self-conscious in the least, but no one seemed to notice or care about our proximity to each other.  I supposed that men took comfort wherever they could find it when faced with such a sense of impending doom.

"You did your best," Jimmy replied in a subdued tone.

"He—  It—"  Cody shook his head, struggling for words.  "There was just... too much damage," he admitted somberly.  "We should've—  I guess... we just couldn't give up on him without trying."  He shrugged apologetically, I supposed for bringing me out there for a lost cause.  I really couldn't blame him and sent my best attempt at an understanding smile his way, but my lips refused to fully cooperate and the result probably looked more like a facial tic than what I was actually aiming for.

Captain McCloud, who I'd noticed in my time at the aid station was not much of a talker, simply nodded in agreement with his comrades, lips pursed in a grim line.  It wasn't enough to absolve my guilt, but I appreciated their efforts.

After a few moments of less-than-comfortable silence I was mildly surprised to see Drew produce an Army-issued canteen from the inside pocket of his jacket, and even more surprised when he offered it wordlessly to Cody, who sat closest to us.  Judging by his raised eyebrows, Cody shared at least part of my sentiment, though he wouldn't know how out of character it was for Drew to share what I presumed to be his precious scotch, especially with someone he'd only known for a matter of hours.  Drew wasn't usually big on pity, sympathy, or empathy – those all required deeper emotions than he typically employed – and he was largely indifferent to the suffering of anyone he didn't care about... but maybe I was underestimating him.  Maybe he'd changed since our time at Androscoggin.  Then again, maybe I shouldn't read too much into one act and let myself get my hopes up.

"Thanks," Cody drawled quietly, unscrewing the cap and taking a long belt.  "Mighty kind of ya."  Loosely recapping it to prevent the falling dust from fouling the contents, he passed the container down the line to Jimmy after a wordless question and a nod of approval from Drew.

While there was no way that the amount of alcohol the canteen could hold would actually get five men drunk, it seemed to at least grant our companions some small amount of comfort and served to take the edge off of our (completely justified) fear.  At the time, surrounded by falling mortars that shook the ground and left our ears ringing long after each explosion, the 4077 seemed like a lifetime away, and Crabapple Cove was almost a vague dream, too good to be true.  Smoke and dust rose steadily around our position and hung in the chilly air, limiting visibility and thrusting us into a strangely surreal setting.  It was hard to vividly recall the sights, smells, and sounds from anywhere outside of that little shell of a building.  Reality had shrunk to the tiny, ruined structure that rained dirt and debris on top of us with every blast; to our grimy and bloodstained companions in the metaphorical foxhole who somehow seemed intimately familiar despite having only met them mere hours ago; to a blessed canteen of scotch that beat a security blanket any day; and to Drew, who was clinging to me as much as I was to him.

Not too long after the canteen had been completely drained the shelling retreated to a more comfortable distance to our east and the smoke slowly cleared from the area.  As if freed from a repressive fog, the world opened up around us, eventually exposing acres of ruined hills and valleys.  Our collective sighs of relief were accompanied by the rumble of approaching vehicles and indistinct chatter – friendlies, judging by the sound of the engines and the direction they were coming from.  Our replacements had arrived.  We were free to go.

After exchanging sympathies, thanks, and well-wishes, Drew and I headed back to the relative safety of the 4077, which I silently vowed to never take for granted ever again.

As we pulled out of sight of Battalion Aid, Drew extended his hand across the gap between our seats, meeting my eyes with a tender expression.  With a smile I intertwined my fingers with his and squeezed his hand lightly.  There was nothing quite like facing death together to make one reevaluate the important things in life, and our most recent spat was not on that list.


	7. Interlude

A few days later, after handing my patients over to Trapper's capable hands and leaving my shift in Post-Op, I wound up having a late dinner with Drew in the aptly-named mess tent.

Frank and Margaret had slunk off separately about ten and fifteen minutes prior, respectively, in what I'm sure they thought was a surreptitious manner, and I knew they'd be in Margaret's tent playing doctor for quite a while yet.  I couldn't begrudge Frank the opportunity, as it was probably the closest thing the man would ever get to the real thing; God knew that his surgical skills didn’t qualify him.

The nurses I'd seen previously welcoming Drew to their table, taken in by his charm and his boyish good looks, were nowhere to be found, likely having already eaten when Igor had started dishing out the kitchen's hazardous materials over an hour ago.  So when I arrived at the mess tent and found Drew just taking a seat at the end of a table all by his lonesome I suspected it was likely that he'd checked the shift schedule and knew that I'd be arriving late for dinner (or what passed for it in Korea).  He was nothing if not thorough... when it suited his interests.

I'd noticed that Drew seemed a bit standoffish toward his fellow enlisted men – no doubt because he viewed himself as superior to them regardless of how many stripes their jackets boasted.  However, that evening I observed a few particularly venomous looks being sent our way, and after poking at some sort of breaded mystery meat for a few minutes I turned to him suspiciously.

"Is there something I'm missing?"

He gave me one of his most innocent smiles.  Anyone who didn't know him would likely fall for the adorable, earnest-looking expression.  To me, it just confirmed my misgivings.  And, okay, yeah, it was still adorable.

"What do you mean?"

I flicked my eyes toward the table that the majority of glares were emanating from.  "Did you do something especially endearing lately, or are you just that popular?"

Drew looked over at them with a disdainful snort.  "They're just bent out of shape because I kept wiping the floor with them at craps.  I hustled about four paychecks' worth of earnings before they kicked me out of the game."

"Craps?" I asked skeptically before it clicked.  Craps _._.. oh, _crap_.  I dropped my head onto the hand not holding my fork for a moment, covering my eyes.  "Tell me you didn't bring your loaded dice to Korea."

Drew smirked unrepentantly.  "How else am I supposed to afford any decent scotch?"

I lifted my head and rolled my eyes in exasperation.  "Wow.  You sure do know how to make friends."

He shrugged.  "They'll get over it."

My brow furrowed as I admonished him:  "You need to stop fucking people over."  And since it was Drew I was speaking to I knew I needed to add extra incentive, because 'It's the right thing to do' wasn't a strong selling point.  "This is a small camp, and you're not doing yourself any favors by pissing off your coworkers and bunkmates."  After a moment's thought I added, "Not exactly helping me out, either."  I didn't need him dragging my name through the dirt with him.  By then the entire camp had at least the vague impression that we were old college friends.

Drew scowled at me, suddenly irritated.  "Is that an order, _sir_?"

I blinked at him, taken aback.  That had come from out of the blue.  I'd been giving him advice, not an order, of course – I'd yet to pull rank on him – but his mocking, challenging tone caused me to want to make it one.  That or smack him upside the head.  "Does it have to be?" I asked, frustrated.

As he'd become more accustomed to life in the Army it had clearly begun irking him that his ex-boyfriend outranked him, and I'd been on the receiving end of a few snarky comments from him in the past weeks, though admittedly he'd also been amused by it in turns.  I got the idea that since our relationship (whatever that might be) was also technically fraternization Drew felt that he was thumbing his nose at the Army even further every minute we spent together – including the dinner in progress.  I certainly understood the satisfaction behind that sentiment, but at that moment it seemed to be more of an undesirable source of contention.

"I don't need you to tell me how to talk to people," he growled.  "I'm a grown man, and if you or the camp or the damn _Army_ doesn't like what I have to say then you can all kiss my ass."

Oh yeah.  Those certainly _sounded_ like the words of a mature adult.  I set that point aside, however, recognizing at once that it would be a futile argument.

"Drew, this isn't Androscoggin," I snapped irritably instead, overcome by a sense of déjà vu as soon as the words left my mouth.  "You can't just drop out and go home if you refuse to play well with others.  The Army doesn't work like that, and if you need that spelled out for you then I give great rates on lobotomies.  I mean, why carry all that extra weight around if you're not using it?"  Looking down at my untouched tray with disgust, I abruptly came to the conclusion that I wasn't hungry.  The mystery meat wasn't all that appetizing in the first place, the succotash was unpleasantly mushy, and at that moment the company left a bit (a lot) to be desired.  Additionally, there was something satisfying about getting the last word in before parting ways.  Standing, I swept out of the mess tent and dumped my tray on the way out to the compound.  Pausing by the trash cans, I stood for a minute and scanned the camp, trying to decide where to go to occupy myself for the rest of the night.  I'd have the Swamp to myself, but a night of utter boredom alone in my tent wasn't sounding incredibly appealing at the moment.

A loud clatter behind me jolted me from my thoughts and I jumped in alarm.  I looked back reproachfully to see Drew sporting an apologetic expression.

"Sorry.  I honestly didn't mean to slam that."

I pursed my lips.  "It's fine," I muttered stiffly.

He frowned, averting his eyes.  "Look, Hawk, I'm sorry, okay?  I'm trying here.  I really am."  What was sad was how much I wanted to believe him.

"Yeah, well... try harder."  I looked around the compound for inspiration – or possibly an excuse to extricate myself from the conversation.  "I'm gonna go take a walk."

"Hawk, I—" he began.

I turned back to him, exasperated, and cut him off.  "Dismissed, Corporal," I said coldly, striding away without waiting for his reaction.

 

·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·

 

I spent about an hour meandering around and then away from camp.  I wound up sitting on a grassy hill where I'd occasionally take a nurse for some alone time on warmer summer days, watching as the sun dipped lower and a chill set in.  Wishing I'd thought to bring an extra layer of clothing, I was still loathe to return to camp.  Moments of peace like this were few and far between in Korea, and I wanted to appreciate it for as long as I could, cold be damned.

I was disappointed to hear the crunch of combat boots on the dried grass coming from the direction of the camp.  Granted, I would have quite likely been in serious trouble if the steps were coming from a different direction, but I was still less than thrilled at being disturbed before I even got to watch the sun sink behind the mountains.

"So this is where you disappeared to," Drew said as he reached me.

"Yep," I replied flatly, not bothering to raise my eyes from the horizon.  He'd given me the time and distance to cool off from our earlier tiff, but that didn't mean I was happy to relinquish my moment of tranquility.

"Nice spot.  I like it," he commented mildly before falling silent.  Uninvited but undaunted, he took a seat about a foot away from me and gazed westward, a serene expression on his face, apparently content to share the peaceful atmosphere.  We sat placidly for a while as the sky lit up in brilliant shades of pink and orange, and I found myself warming to his company.

"Beautiful," he whispered some time later when the sun had finally dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky beyond the mountains a kaleidoscope of purples as the moon and the stars became visible overhead.  I glanced over at him with a slight smile to indicate my agreement, only to find him looking at me.  He leaned towards me, raising a hand and softly brushing his fingers along the bottom of my jaw, tantalizingly light, just barely touching, ending with his thumb caressing my lips gently.  Pausing with his hand cupping my face, he shared a sweet smile with me, his dark doe eyes piercing mine as if he could read my very soul in the fading light before glancing back at the horizon.  "The sunset was, too."

I snorted at that, but couldn't stop my smile from growing.  "Smooth operator," I teased him fondly, our earlier disagreement seeming like years-old history.

"You know it," he replied softly before closing the distance between us.  After a chaste, incredibly gentle kiss he ran his hand from my jaw to the soft spot under my ear, making me shiver, and around to the back of my neck to support my head as he slowly lowered me to the ground.

What followed was probably one of the most tender hours of intimacy that I'd ever shared with the man.  I honestly would have had to describe it as making love if I had been asked to put it into words.  And apparently Drew felt the same.

We were still lying in the grass, gazing blissfully up at the stars in the crisp, clear night when a deep inhale from Drew made my head rise where it rested against his chest.  I looked up at him curiously and waited to hear what was on his mind.

"I…."  He hesitated, fumbling uncharacteristically for words.  Drew only did that when he was actually addressing emotions.  I'd say that it happened once in a blue moon, but blue moons are actually a lot more common than whoever coined that phrase seemed to think, and Drew speaking about emotions was incredibly rare.  He was just so unfamiliar with them.  It'd be like me trying to describe the surface and climate of Mars.  To a Martian.

"Hawk."  He tried again.  "I… I love you.  You know that, right?"  He sounded so _vulnerable_.  So earnest.  So sincere.  It was a far cry from the Drew that I'd loved and despised in turn.

Resisting the urge to make a joke ("Who are you and what have you done with my Andrew?" sprang to mind), I nodded, my stubbled cheek rasping almost silently against his shirt.  I wasn't sure that Drew was actually capable of love in the traditional sense, but I knew that he cared more deeply for me more than he did most people.  If he thought that was love then I wasn't going to start an argument.

"Yeah.  I know," I conceded.  He seemed to be waiting for something more, and I knew what that something was.  I fumbled blindly for his hand, then finally grasped it, squeezing it and lacing my fingers through his.  "I love you too," I said quietly, gravely.

And, God help me, I did.

 


	8. Three-Day Pass

Henry called Trapper and me into his office late the next afternoon.  I was hoping for some dirty movies, but he hadn't mentioned any possible new arrivals so we weren't really sure what to expect.  With the way my luck was running I suspected it might be Frank-related trouble.  After all, I'd short-sheeted his bed (cot) earlier in the week.

"Now, I know you guys have been putting in a lot of overtime lately," Henry began in a tone that sounded disconcertingly like the preface to some bad news.  Trap and I exchanged cautious glances as we waited for the shoe to drop.  Or hammer, or anvil, or whatever else might be lurking in the metaphorical rafters.  "The entire UN is preparing for a big push."  I rolled my eyes heavenward and felt my mouth set in a grim line.  I'd take Frank's histrionics over that any day.  " _But_ " – Henry held up his index finger with some measure of enthusiasm that I felt could prove promising – "it'll take several days for them to get everything set in place.  They've got to move various cavalry divisions into position," (it still blew my mind that tanks were referred to as cavalry; in case the Army had missed the memo, tanks were not horses) "reform some units, and so on and so forth…."  Henry trailed off, waving his hand about with the attitude of someone who really didn't give a damn about the active combat involved.  Which was fitting, since back at the MASH unit all we really dealt with was the aftermath.

"So?" Trapper prompted when Henry continued to take his time about getting to the point.

"So," he continued with more energy, "I figured I'd send you two to Seoul for a few days of R&R while there's a lull on."  We were both out of our chairs and bouncing enthusiastically around the office before he finished his sentence, and he had to speak over our delighted exclamations for a moment before we could rein in our excitement.  "Hopefully it'll give you the energy to pull through the next few weeks.  I'm not gonna lie to you two, this push – and the one after that, and the one after that, and… well, you get my drift – they're going to be rough."  The warning served to settle us a bit, but couldn't completely strip away our excitement.

"We'll be sure to come back as rested and relaxed and recreated as humanly possible," I promised him mischievously.

He rummaged around the paperwork littering his desk, then held out two passes, already filled out and signed, but pulled them back before we could snatch them from his fingers.  "Now, I don't want to get a hundred calls complaining about your behavior while you're gone," he said sternly.  Well, as sternly as Henry could manage.

I graced him with an angelic smile.  "Henry, Henry, that was _Tokyo_ ," I pointed out in the best mollifying tone I could muster on short notice.

"Yeah, they love us in Seoul," Trapper added.  "We let 'em walk all over us."  His crooked smile didn't really help our case, but Henry reluctantly handed the passes over.

"There's been some sniper action and I don't want you two driving in the dark with your headlights painting a target on your Jeep, so these passes start tomorrow.  If I thought you'd take my advice I'd say that you probably shouldn't get sloshed tonight, so you can wake up early and make the most of your day tomorrow, but there's really no point in me wasting my breath, right?"

I grinned at Henry's not-so-subtle hint.  "Point taken, Henry.  Thanks for the passes!"

Trapper echoed my gratitude and we raced for the door before Henry could decide that maybe letting the both of us go on R&R together wasn't the brightest of ideas.

"You lucky pups!" Radar said enviously as we sashayed through the outer office.

I slapped him on the back with a little more enthusiasm than I'd intended as I skipped by, but paused long enough to promise him a special magazine if he screened some of the calls Henry might potentially receive from one or two disgruntled business owners in Seoul.  It took the kid all of a millisecond to agree to the deal.

After Father Mulcahy predictably dropped by with a list of items desired by those unfortunates who weren't going to be getting three war-free days in the city, I was packing my suitcase with a variety of colorful shirts – the sole theme being anything _not_ -Army issue – when Drew knocked on the door.

"Hey," I said, surprised and still a bit excited, "come on in!"

My lover surveyed the half-packed bags littering our cots.  "Heard you were off to Seoul for a few days," he said impassively.

I felt my smile slowly fade as I detected a ping on my trouble-sensing radar.  "News travels fast," I said, trying to keep my voice upbeat in front of Trapper.

"Small camp," my bunkie chimed in, as if announcing a breaking news bulletin.

"Can I talk to you?" Drew asked tightly before grabbing my wrist and tugging my arm toward the door.  " _Alone?_ "

Trapper turned, brows raised, to look at us.  Meanwhile, I made eye contact with every corner of the tent but the one he occupied.

"Yeah, sure," I said, failing to keep the sudden wariness from seeping into my tone.  Ignoring Trap's curious stare, I let Drew pull me from the tent, then, when he hesitated, uncertain of the best location for a private chat, led him around to the back of the hospital building.

"What's up?" I asked him bluntly as I reclined against the exterior wall, arms crossed in a subconsciously defensive position.

"'What's up?'" he echoed incredulously.  "You're going off to some city to spend three days with another man and you have the gall to pretend like there's nothing wrong here?"

I rolled my eyes and let out an exasperated sigh.  "Okay, one:  I've already told you that Trapper's heterosexual.  In fact, you should have, by now, _observed_ that he's straight.  Two:  we've already established that _we're not going steady_."  I motioned between the two of us heatedly.  "You and me?  'Just sex,' remember?"

"You really expect me to believe that this guy you're going to spend three days with – _alone_ – is not interested in sex?!  And—and it's different when you're doing it with another man.  The nurses… whatever."  He waved that off, as if he hadn't previously held almost the exact opposite position when I'd agreed to the date with Bigelow.  "But your bunkmate?  I'm supposed to just be okay with that?"

"I never said that Trapper's not interested in sex.  Just that he's not going to be having it with _me_.  Believe it or not, while we're in Seoul we'll be spending our time – separately – with as many friendly women as humanly possible in the space of three days."

"I've seen you and Trapper touching each other," he said accusingly.  "You two seem quite _close_."

I blinked a few times, puzzled.  "I touch _everyone_ , Drew.  It's nothing sexual."  My puzzlement turned into anger when that statement failed to make an impression on him.  "You know what?  Why don't you just piss on my leg and get it over with, huh?"  He was acting like he _owned_ me.  Why did this man always have to make things so damn complicated?  It reminded me of why I hadn't been in a serious relationship – that is to say, monogamous – in a long time.  Between Andrew and Carlye I'd been understandably leery of commitment since residency.  After all, if you didn't let anyone too close, nothing could touch you.

He ignored my remark, and his next question came out of left field.  "So if Trapper _were_ gay, you're saying that you wouldn't be all over that?"

I paused a beat too long then.  Yeah, if Trapper were gay I'd sleep with him.  But he wasn't, so it was a moot point.  It wasn't like I was pining after the guy.  I just found him attractive.  And that was a pretty big deciding factor when determining whether I'd have sex with someone, male or female.

Since my hesitation had already given me away, I figured I might as well be honest.  He'd be even more pissed off if I lied to him about it or tried to brush off the question.  "If Trapper were gay," I began cautiously, "yeah, I'd probably have sex with him.  It doesn't mean I have feelings for him, beyond him being my best friend."  I knew the moment those sentences left my mouth that I'd made a serious mistake.  Lesson learned:  honesty, bad.

Drew grabbed both of my biceps and shook me, hard.  "You're a fucking liar," he hissed.  I could see the color rising in his cheeks at approximately the same rate as his anger, and by that point they were nearing lobster-red, contrasting starkly with his pale complexion.  "And what's most pathetic is that you can't even see that you're lying to _yourself_."

"I don't see anything because _There. Is. Nothing. To. See_."  I shook off his hands and straightened, looking down at Drew by mere inches.  "You need to get a grip.  Take these three days to clear your head.  Find another guy to fuck," I added coldly.  "Write some of your stupid songs.  I don't care."

"You're not going," he told me haughtily.

And, right then and there, I completely missed what should've been a red flag to me.  His lack of reaction to my dig about his songwriting should have clued me in that I was treading very dangerous waters.

Instead my eyebrows shot skyward of their own accord at his statement and I laughed in his face.  Who was he to tell me that I couldn't escape this cesspool and go enjoy myself for a few days when the rare opportunity presented itself?  "Right," I chuckled humorlessly, baring my teeth at him in a sardonic grin.  "Sure."  Straightening, I looked down my nose at him, meeting his incensed brown eyes.  " _Watch me_ ," I told him defiantly – another mistake.  I stepped around him and began to make my way back to the Swamp when the next words out of his mouth stopped me cold.

"Yeah?  Fine.  I'll out us both," he spat.  "You want a dishonorable discharge?  Go ahead and take that three-day pass."

It took me a moment to pick my jaw up off the ground in order to reply.  "Wh—  You—"  Turning back around, I gaped at him for a moment before finding the words.  "Are you _loony_?!  Have you absolutely _lost it_?!  What the hell is wrong with you?!"  At some point I'd crossed the distance separating us and shoved him up against the back wall of the building with adrenaline-assisted force, my fingers digging into his shoulders and shaking him to emphasize each sentence.  I don't know who was more shocked by my actions – him or me.

Startled, he just blinked at me for a long moment before reassessing his threat and apparently coming to the conclusion that perhaps he was out of line.  "Fine."  He threw up his hands, prompting mine to drop away and hang limply at my sides.  "Fine.  Go.  Fuck the entire city for all I care.  I won't say anything."  He seemed to consider something for a moment.  "And bring me a bottle of scotch, will you?"  He gentled his tone, and the difference was like night and day.  "Please?"

I stared at him in disbelief a moment longer, decidedly perturbed.  It occurred to me at that moment that this could go very badly for me.  Even worse than I'd previously imagined, that is.  Drew had it in his power to completely ruin my life.  And I believed he'd do it, too, if pushed hard enough.  I was in it deep.  Every day I'd wake up asking myself, 'Do I get fucked today, or do I get _fucked over_ today?'

"Yeah, sure," I mumbled quietly, when I noticed that he was obviously waiting for an answer.  Scotch.  After all that, he had the nerve to ask me to buy him his scotch.  If he wasn't careful he was going to strip his gears going from full throttle ahead to reverse in a matter of seconds.

Dazed, I turned my back on him and walked away.

When I returned to the Swamp I was visibly shaken.  There was no hiding that from Trapper.  Not from my best friend; not from someone who knew me so well.

"You okay?" he asked, brows furrowed.

"Fine," I answered shortly.

Not being a complete moron, Trap clearly wasn't buying what I was selling.  He paused, staring blankly at one of the tent's canvas walls, another question apparently on his mind.  Finally he took a deep breath and looked at me.  Feeling the weight of his gaze, I met his eyes.  "You're fuckin' him, aren't you?"

_Not_ a question I wanted to field right now.  Or ever.  "What?"  My voice had jumped nearly an octave in that single syllable, and I couldn't keep my eyes from dropping toward the floor.  "Of course not," I said dismissively, but with a decided lack of conviction.  "Don't be absurd."

He let out a frustrated huff.  "Hawk, my five-year-old couldn't miss the way you two look at each other."

I hesitated for a long moment, then decided to abandon the charade.  Trapper wasn't an idiot, and treating him like one would be doing us both a disservice.  He'd been copacetic with George; I could only hope that his attitude wouldn't change when it was his bunkie who had sex with men rather than some stranger.  "Okay, so what if we are?" I asked defiantly, the words tumbling rapidly from my lips with a complete lack of finesse, as if the verbal equivalent of quickly ripping off a bandage would make it less painful – not to mention that I'd be less likely to chicken out mid-sentence.  I tried to look as if I didn't care what my best friend thought of my sexual proclivities.

He sent me a tender expression of concern and gentled his tone.  "That guy is buckin' for a dishonorable discharge.  Don't let him take you down with him."

Well... I had to say... that was probably the best reaction I could have possibly hoped for.  I raised my brows, impressed, when he approached and placed a supportive hand on my shoulder.  With a delicate pressure – a stark contrast to Drew's earlier touch – Trapper guided me down to my cot, then had a seat beside me.

"He's your ex, ain't he?" he asked softly.  "From school?"

I sucked in a deep breath.  "Yeah," I replied quietly, studying my lap, not really sure what to expect.

His voice took on a warning tone.  "He's trouble."

I laughed shakily.  "No kidding."

"What're you gonna do about him?"

I shook my head, then buried my face in my hands.  "Hell if I know."

He patted my leg.  "Lemme know if I can help."

I lifted my head, somewhat amazed that he was still comfortable with being in my immediate vicinity after my revelation, much less touching me, and sent him a wavering smile.  "Will do.  Thanks."

He rose and resumed his packing, albeit at a more sedate pace, and after taking a few minutes to collect myself, I followed suit.

"So, this doesn't change things?" I asked eventually, apprehensive.  "Like, between us?"

"Why would it?"  He seemed genuinely puzzled.

"Uh.  This whole me-having-sex-with-men thing doesn't bother you?"  I'd gotten a myriad of reactions from various people throughout my life when my sexual orientation was exposed in one way or another.  It varied, of course, from person to person and by the manner in which I was outed, but typically straight men responded a bit more... unpleasantly.

Trapper snorted.  "I came to terms with that a long time ago," he informed me.

"You knew?" I asked, surprised.

He laughed.  "I'm not blind, Hawk.  You flirt with anything on two legs.  I've seen you check out men."  He sent me a mischievous smirk.  "And then there was that medical conference in Tokyo when you disappeared off with some _very_ friendly guy you met at the bar, an' I didn't hear from you 'til the next afternoon…."

I smiled sheepishly.  "And here I was thinking that everyone assumes I'm joking around when I flirt with men."

He nodded.  "Most people do.  An' to be fair, you usually are."  I tilted my head in agreement.  "I don't know of anyone else that's figured it out.  But… I know you better than most."

I felt my smile grow into something more genuine and heartfelt.  "Yeah.  Yeah, you do."

 

·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·

 

After we finished packing Trapper and I ended up nursing a couple of martinis in the nearly-deserted O. Club.  Father Mulcahy was butchering some poor song on the piano, and the few other patrons were chatting over their drinks or, in one corpsman's case, writing a letter while miraculously not spilling his umpteenth beer all over the paper.

When Drew walked in my eyes snapped to him warily.  He smiled at me, astonishingly enough, and I was a bit disturbed to note that I couldn't recognize the emotion lurking behind that smile.  I did have enough sense, though, to tell that something was up.  And I wasn't the only one.  Trapper shifted in his seat by my side and turned a watchful eye on my ex.

Drew approached Father Mulcahy, and after a quiet conversation the priest graciously bequeathed custody of the piano to the corporal, stepping back to take a seat nearby so he could listen.  I was somewhat surprised that Drew would choose to play here, of all places, and on that dilapidated piano.  Perhaps he'd spent the hours since our argument in contemplation.  His passion for music was probably the source of the deepest emotion he was capable of feeling; maybe he simply needed an outlet after our blowout.

Drew locked eyes with me as his fingers began to dance over the keys, and I watched him play with a fairly remarkable mask of impassivity, if I did say so myself.

What followed was a simple arrangement, somewhat slow and set in a minor key for an extra measure of plaintiveness.  I thought that I might have heard him use the melody before, or some variant of it, but the words were new to me.

> _I've had some time to think it through._   
>  _I can see things from your point of view._   
>  _Know there's nothing I wouldn't do_   
>  _To take back those words that hurt you._   
>  _I know this apology has been long overdue._   
>  _I'll get down on my knees if you ask me to._

I fought to keep from rolling my eyes.  He wasn't pouring out his feelings in the music – he was sending me a message.  Still, the last line made me smirk slightly.  I had to admit, sometimes I liked him better on his knees.

And 'overdue' was putting it mildly, I had to say.  Hell, I had to wonder if it was even true, or just something that he chose to plug in for the sake of rhyming, which seemed to be one of his favorite writing styles.  In fact, I couldn't recall a single one of his creations that didn't involve some sort of rhyming structure.  It probably had something to do with the fact that he'd completely half-assed his creative writing elective at Androscoggin.  He'd signed up for it thinking that it would be an easy credit and was disappointed to find that the professor actually took his subject seriously.  It had, however, served to extend his ability to instill meaning into the music he created, though the quality of the results were obviously inconsistent.  Sometimes it worked; more often it made me want to beat my head into a wall.

> _I wield my words like a weapon._   
>  _Your pain is my crime._   
>  _And here's my confession:_   
>  _Darling, I crossed a line._

It was a crude, hastily-sketched apology – because he couldn't be a normal person and just come out and say "I'm sorry."

> _I'll never forget that look in your eyes._   
>  _I watched your face while your trust in me died._   
>  _I don't know how I became so cold inside_   
>  _But if you'll have me, I'll swallow my pride._   
>  _I'll show you exactly how hard I can try._   
>  _Give me a chance to stand by your side._

Yeah… that attempt he was promising would last all of three days, at the very most.  And I'd never known him _not_ to be 'so cold inside.'  Was that supposed to be news, or just poetic license?

> _I wield my words like a weapon._   
>  _Your pain is my crime._   
>  _And here's my confession:_   
>  _I'm sorry I crossed the line._

Well, there was the "I'm sorry," at least.  I supposed that was something.  But if he had ever sworn that he wouldn't cross a line like that, then why did he make a fairly regular habit of it?  His words rang untrue, in my humble opinion.  And as I was the sole intended recipient, it seemed to me that my opinion was the one that mattered.

> _I know that I can make this right._   
>  _I promise you I've seen the light:_   
>  _Sometimes things aren't black and white._   
>  _I realize that I was wrong to fight._   
>  _I swear to you we'll be alright._   
>  _Just let me hold you in my arms tonight._

I suppressed a sigh as the clichés poured from his mouth, albeit with a beautiful melody behind it.  And, of course, he'd have to bring the apology back to sex – or at least some sort of physical form of reparation.

> _I wield my words like a weapon._   
>  _Your pain is my crime._   
>  _And here's my confession:_   
>  _So sorry I crossed that line._

He was only sorry that he'd been called out and hadn't gotten his way.  I was willing to bet that if I'd gone along with him he wouldn't be having such a crisis of conscience.  Maybe he thought putting the words to music made the apology more special or heartfelt, but to me it felt more like a cop-out.  A way to not have to have an actual discussion to my face.

As he slowly caressed the final notes on the piano Drew turned to me for my reaction.  When he saw that I was more annoyed than placated he looked genuinely crestfallen, but he was intercepted an enthusiastic priest before he could react further.

Father Mulcahy approached Drew and clapped him on the back.  "When you said you wanted to play the piano, I didn't know it would be so well."  I noted with an irrepressible smirk that he failed to comment on the quality of the lyrics.

"Oh, no, father.  That was just something I threw together at the last minute.  But, thank you."

"Do you know any other songs?  It'd be nice to have someone with your talent take over the piano for a bit."  With a self-deprecating chuckle he patted Drew's shoulder in a way that I knew must have irked Drew to no end.

Drew sent an inscrutable look my way, then nodded pleasantly at the priest.  "I have another piece that I wrote quite a while ago."

"Well, let's hear it."

"Yes sir," Drew replied with a plastic smile, cutting his eyes at me.

He began delicately picking out a haunting, impassioned song, again set in a minor key, and one that I was intimately familiar with.  The song was one he'd written for me when we were at Androscoggin.  I'd been upset – well, more along the lines of severely depressed – after one of our many breakups, and once he was ready to apologize he commiserated with me in the only way he knew how.  He'd called the piece "Every Heartbeat."  The melody rang out in his baritone, but I heard the harmony I once sang with him in the echoes of my memory.  I broke the gaze to study my martini glass when he began singing.

> _You were standing on the edge of the abyss,_   
>  _Gazing down into the great unknown,_   
>  _Wondering how you could make it out of this,_   
>  _When you felt so hopelessly alone._
> 
> _Try reflecting on all the pain that's brought you low._   
>  _Remember your most crushing of defeats._   
>  _Grasp them in your hand - and **let them go**._   
>  _Say goodbye with every heartbeat._

The melody shifted into something slightly slower, a bit darker, and lowered half an octave, marking a change in the song.

> _You're wandering aimlessly,_   
>  _Utterly lost in your despair._   
>  _All you seem to do is wonder "why?"_   
>  _You're wishing for someone who will care,_   
>  _But it seems like every "hello" becomes "goodbye."_   
>  _You prayed for a way out of this nightmare._   
>  _Now you're convinced there's nothing left to try._

Once again the music reverted to its original pace for the chorus.

> _So reflect on all of the pain that's brought you low._   
>  _Remember your most crushing of defeats._   
>  _Grasp them in your hand - and **let them go**._   
>  _Say goodbye with every heartbeat._

Honestly, he'd had a good point with that chorus (though I'd never admit that to him).  My typical defense mechanism of repression wasn't serving me very well, and his encouragement to face my emotions in order to move past them had actually been helpful at that time.  I wasn't entirely sure what the song had to do with _this_ situation, however, but I worried that I was going to find out.

The last stanza morphed into a major key, leaving the song on a slightly more positive note.

> _Let it go, just walk away._   
>  _Don't look on this as a defeat._   
>  _You'll reclaim your life today._   
>  _So say goodbye with every heartbeat._

As the last note faded I surreptitiously looked around the club.  Every eye was on Drew, and most of the patrons looked fascinated, at least.  I would have thought that the unusually dark tone of the lyrics would draw a negative reaction, but apparently it didn't detract excessively from the poignant elegance of the music.

Father Mulcahy beamed.  "Oh, my son, that was wonderful," he said with a smile.  "The music was lovely, and the words... well, I've never heard anything like it before."  Once again the priest neglected to comment on what he actually thought of Drew's lyrics, which made me somewhat vindictively pleased.  I had to admit that they could be something of an acquired taste (when they weren't altogether lousy, off-putting, or intentionally obnoxious).  They certainly weren't like what played on the radio today.  It was no "You Are My Sunshine" or "My Blue Heaven."  And the padre was nothing if not kind and truthful in his compliments.  I suspected he was utilizing the 'If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all' approach.  "You say you wrote it yourself?"

Drew returned the smile, and if I didn't know him I would have thought it was genuine.  "Yes sir," he said with a nod.  "Many years ago.  Someone I cared about was going through a rough time."  His eyes flicked my way, but I didn't think the father caught it.  Trapper certainly had, judging by the calculating glare he shot my ex.  "I'm actually working on another piece," Drew told the priest, "but I haven't gotten it quite right just yet."  This time his eyes met mine for a dangerous few seconds before I looked away.

On that note I decided it was time for bed.  I wanted to get an early start in the morning, after all.  It didn't have anything to do with feeling like I'd just been punched in the stomach.

Draining the last of my gin, which unfortunately did nothing for the bitter taste in my mouth, I stood carefully, directed a stiff smile in Drew's direction for appearance's sake, and made for the door at a slow, deliberate pace just to spite my urge to run – to escape.  Trapper followed my lead.  I could feel Drew's eyes on my back as I walked away.

 


	9. Rest and Relaxation

Our days in Seoul passed far too quickly in a flurry of inebriation, pleasures of the flesh, and all-around hedonism.  Between massages and private time with our women-du-jour, Trapper provided both company and distraction from the F.U.B.A.R. situation I had to look forward to upon my impending return to the 4077.  He'd broached the subject the first night at a club over drinks, apparently intending to brainstorm with me on some potential problem-solving techniques, but I'd quickly shut the conversation down.  As liberating as it was to have the circumstances with Drew out in the open between us and not have to censor myself around my best friend, or slip in half-truths to keep my secret, I just wanted to enjoy my three drama-free (and Drew-free) days while I could.  I'd think about how to deal with Andrew Kenna after I had to return to my little corner of the war.  I intended to relax and recreate as much as humanly possible in the meantime.

The last evening of my vacation I was returning to my room at Uncle Chang's Changri-La from a public bathhouse with my second dalliance of the trip when Uncle Chang himself flagged me down with a message:  I'd received a call from the 4077.  The hotel proprietor's grasp of the English language was somewhat stilted, but I gathered that someone at the camp wanted me to call them back P.D.Q.  With a sinking feeling in my stomach I stepped into the lounge-slash-bar that housed the establishment's complementary telephone, surrounded by a glass booth that gave the patrons utilizing it the illusion of privacy.  Waving Sang-mi, my lady of the evening, over to the bar, I ordered a martini for myself and indicated as best I could that she should get anything she wanted before stepping away to the phone booth.

"MASH 4077," Radar said once my call was patched through, sounding a bit preoccupied with whatever activity I was interrupting.

"Heya, Radar.  What's going on?"  I just _knew_ that Henry had to be calling us back early; that the push had started sooner than expected, or that the Chinese had launched a surprise attack before our side had finished getting everyone and everything into place; that there was going to be an influx of wounded pouring in at any moment; that I'd have to track down Trapper John and interrupt whatever – or, more likely, _who_ ever – he was doing at the moment; that Sang-mi wasn't going to give me a refund.

"Hawkeye?"

"That's what it says on my dog tags," I joked.

I heard the rustling of papers as Radar dropped whatever he'd been working on at the moment.  "Listen, I –"  He paused and the rustling stopped as he processed my quip.  "Wait.  What?  Your dog tags?  No kidding?"

I chuckled at the kid's gullibility despite the suspected seriousness of the phone call.

"Oh," he said after a breath as he turned his full attention to the conversation and realized that I was just yanking his chain.  "Is not!" he retorted indignantly, albeit a bit belatedly.

"Yeah, you caught me," I admitted with an unrepentant grin.  "Can't pull a fast one over on _you_ , can I?" I asked rhetorically before sobering and clearing my throat.  "So, is something wrong?"  I already knew the answer to that question – I just needed the details that would help me determine what course the rest of the night would have to take.

"No, I don't think – well, maybe.  I dunno.  Corporal Kenna had me call and leave a message for you.  Said he needed to talk to you before you got back."

A wave of anger crashed over my head at Drew's nerve.  "Of course," I said, forcing levity into my tone, "he waits until _after_ Trap and I have made the P.X. run for everyone."  I sincerely doubted that he was calling to ask me to pick something up for him;  I suspected the call was more along the lines of checking up on me, but I had to manufacture a smokescreen to cover both of our asses, and that was the best thing I could think of in the three-second window I'd had.

"Give me a minute," was all Radar said before dropping the handset on the desk.

I was going to kill Andrew Kenna.  He was dead.  As a metaphorical doornail.  I might be adverse to guns and violence in general, but I found a certain satisfaction in imagining myself using a bedpan to bludgeon his beautiful head into a shapeless mass of jelly and bone fragments.

' _Just_ _sex_.'  _Just_ fucking _sex_.  And now I couldn't leave the compound for three days without the man hounding me.  God, I'd been so stupid.  I should have demanded that Henry transfer him out the instant he'd stepped through the door of the O. Club.  I should have stayed well out of shouting distance from Drew at all times.  And I shouldn't had been standing in a phone booth on my last night of R &R thinking about all of the mistakes I'd made since my ex had shown up at the 4077.

While I waited I sent a couple of forced, apologetic smiles to Sang-mi and waved my hand, indicating that she should remain at the bar.  Thankfully she took the hint, sipping some clear liquid, most likely sake, as I figuratively twiddled my thumbs.

After few minutes of staticky background noise from the phone I heard the clatter of the office door being opened and closed, and Drew's velvety smooth tone took over the line.  "Hawk," he greeted me, a smile in his voice.

My jaw clenched so tight that it took me a moment to loosen it enough to reply.  "What do you want, Drew?" I asked irritably.  "I was kinda busy here."

"Well it's nice to hear your voice, too," he replied, instantly and (admittedly) understandably cross.

"Look, I've got a girl idling at the bar.  Can we make this quick?"

"Yeah, Heaven forbid I interrupt your debauchery," he snapped.

"Do you have company?"

"What?" he asked, thrown by my sudden change in subject.

"Is Radar or anyone standing where they can overhear us?"

"Ah, yeah."  It took him all of a second to get where I was going with that question.  "Did you pick up that bottle of scotch for me?" he asked.  "The good stuff, I mean.  Not that rotgut we get around camp."  So far so good.  "Well," he continued for the benefit of whoever was potentially listening in, "I was hoping you could pick something else up for me."  He paused as if listening to a reply from me.  "I, uh, I heard about this thing they have in Seoul...."  He trailed off.  "Um, could I have a moment of privacy, corporal?" he asked Radar, as if he didn't want to announce to the compound whatever he was going to request next.

I listened with a slight smirk to indistinct voices, and then the sound of the office door opening and closing.

"Okay, all clear." Drew told me.  "The colonel is in Post-Op and the little guy just vamoosed."

"What did you call about, Drew?" I asked, irritation returning as I eyed the lovely woman waiting for me at the bar.  This call had already taken about five times too long, in my humble opinion.  And while it was nice that it wasn't Henry calling us back to camp early, I couldn't say I was especially thrilled to be talking with my complicated ex when I could be in my room already, enjoying the company of a beautiful specimen of the female persuasion.

"So... I've been thinking."

"Uh oh." My attempt at humor sounded forced and half-hearted even to me.

"I've been _thinking_ ," he repeated flippantly before sobering again.  "I... I need to talk to you.  When you get back.  Meet me in the supply hut when you get here?"

 Well that wasn't ominous or anything.  "Yeeeeah..." I replied, drawing out the word in a manner that made it clear that I wasn't simply acquiescing to his request.  "You remember last time we ' _talked_ ,' Drew?  I seem to recall it not being incredibly productive."  It had, actually, been the spark that ignited the detonation cord leading to a capricious bundle of dynamite.  Drew had the potential to either fizzle out at the last moment or cause a messy explosion that would put me, my career – hell, my entire future – at risk of complete demolition.

"When will you be getting back?" he asked, ignoring my comment and the temptation of the low-hanging fruit I'd just verbally dangled in front of him.  That he didn't make some sort of comment about the productivity of that 'conversation' didn't bode well.

"Well, we gotta make it back before it gets dark, so I'd say right before sunset."

"Alright."

I hesitated, confused.  "What about this was so urgent?  I'll be back tomorrow.  You couldn't have waited to ask me to talk then?"

"I just....  It's important."

Oh yeah.  That was encouraging.  "Yeah.  Sure."  I paused to see if there was anything else forthcoming.  "Is that it?"

"That's it," Drew replied, his tone dishearteningly subdued.

I scowled.  "Are you planning on doing something stupid?"

"Stupid?" he repeated mockingly.  "Me?"  A faked laugh.  "Surely you jest."

Before I could reply I heard the click of the line going dead.  The prick always had to get in the last word.

With a long-suffering sigh I placed the phone back on its hook.  Leaning back against the wall, I tilted my head upward and closed my eyes, trying to clear my head and failing spectacularly.

"We go up now, Joe?" Sang-mi asked from the other side of the glass booth, startling me from my thoughts.

"Uh."  I looked her over.  She was beautiful, with porcelain-white skin, high cheekbones, and full lips set on a heart-shaped face.  Not to mention all the right curves in all the right places.  But right then I just couldn't block out the raging paranoia shouting at me from the back of my mind.  "You know what, honey?  I'm kind of tired.  I think I'm going to call it an early night."

She frowned at me, confused.  "You pay money," she said insistently.

Yep, I had already paid up front.  And no, I was pretty sure I wasn't getting a refund because I decided to cut the night short.

"Keep it," I told her, suddenly exhausted.  "I had a lovely time today.  Thank you for your company, Sang-mi."

She smiled at me, a bit hesitant and still somewhat bewildered, and bowed a couple of times as she backed away.  "Thank you, Joe.  Have good time," she said before making her way to the exit.

Drained of energy, I trudged to the bar and commandeered my waiting martini and a full bottle of top-shelf gin before retreating to my room, finishing off the martini before I'd even reached the hall.  I spared a second of gratitude that we'd been assigned two of the few first-floor rooms on this trip, as I wasn't sure I'd have the strength to make it up even one set of stairs.  I passed Trapper's door on the way and paused, considering asking if he'd like to join me for our last night of intoxication in what passed for civilization, but the sound of a woman's giggles coming from inside his room had me continuing on to mine alone.

Anxious and dreading whatever was waiting for me back at the 4077, I ran over a hundred horrible scenarios in my head for a few hours as I steadily drained the bottle.  I had no idea how long it took me to attain unconsciousness; I just knew that it wasn't nearly soon enough.

 

 ·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·

 

I was rudely awoken by my bunkmate late the next morning, despite the fact that we weren't actually sharing a room in Seoul.  Something about that seemed unfair.  Apparently as check-out time approached and pounding on my door wasn't garnering any response he'd had to get one of the bellhops to let him into my room.  It was probably a good thing that Uncle Chang recognized us as buddies from the same unit from our previous trips.  We'd made somewhat of an impression on him in the past, and spent enough money at his establishment that he was willing to overlook certain... unorthodox antics on our part.

So when 10:30 rolled around Uncle Chang was all too happy to let one of his girls unlock my room so that Trapper could get me up and moving.  I couldn't say that _I_ was incredibly happy with his hand on my shoulder as the entire room rocked in time with his incessant prodding.

"I got it from here, doll," I heard my friend say.  "Thanks.  You might wanna go fetch a rickshaw if you want him out of the room in the next hour, though."

A soft, feminine voice replied too quietly to be heard over the drums pounding in my head, but by the time I opened my eyes Trapper was the only person in the room.  Granted, there were three of him, which made me suspect that I was still not quite sober.

"You throw a party without me, Hawk?" all three of him asked wryly, lifting the bottle(s) of gin and searching around the floor for the cap.  There was still about a finger's worth of liquid in the bottom, I was surprised to note, though whether I was more surprised that I hadn't finished it before passing out or that it hadn't spilled when I did finally fall asleep I couldn't say.

I replied with somewhat of an incoherent grunt.  Undeterred, he looked around my room for more clues, and perhaps the cap.

"Your girl left early, huh?"

"Yeah," I mumbled, pulling a pillow over my eyes.  "Before we made it past the lobby last night."

Trapper scoffed.  "You mean to tell me you struck out with a prostitute?"

I removed the pillow from my face just long enough to shoot my friend a bleary glare that illustrated how much I appreciated his question.  He raised his eyebrows at me unrepentantly and began picking up my room, shoving articles of clothing back into my duffle as he waited for my explanation.

"Andrew called," I told him after a moment of disgruntled silence.

"He did, did he?"  Trapper sounded unhappy, if unsurprised.  "What'd he want?"

"Apparently to know when we would be getting back."  My bunkmate-turned-maid grunted in acknowledgement.  "He wants to _talk_ ," I elaborated.

"Oh goody."  His words oozed sarcasm.  I listened to him shuffling around my room for a moment longer before he asked, "So, you goin' to talk to him when we get back?"

"Guess so," I said unenthusiastically.  "Not sure I have much of a choice."

"Any idea what he's goin' on about?"

"I wish I knew.  I did manage to come up with a few dozen horrible possibilities last night, though."

A sigh came from the other side of the room, followed by a soft "Aha!" and the sound of a cap being screwed onto the bottle of gin.  "You shoulda come got me, y' know."

"You had company," I reminded him.

"Yeah, well, I'd rather knock back some drinks with you than find out you sat up all night stressin' over things all by your lonesome."

My lips quirked upward of their own accord and I removed the pillow from over my head, tossing it beside me on the bed.  "You know, you can be a half-decent guy sometimes, Trapper John."

My friend grinned back at me, then pointed a stern finger in my direction.  "You go tellin' anyone that an' I'll deny it."

With a chuckle I sat up in bed, grabbing handfuls of sheets when the room spun and bobbed.  "When did we get on a boat?" I mumbled facetiously, trying to keep my stomach in one place.

Trapper lifted the nearly-empty bottle of booze.  "I'd figure somewhere around here," he said, indicating a point about a third of the way up the bottle.

I groaned.  "I'd figure you're right."  Casting my eyes around the floor groggily, I spotted my kimono on the floor near the bed.  "Can you...?" I asked, making grabbing motions with my hands toward the bundle of silk and polyester.

My friend obligingly plucked the kimono from the floor and tossed it in my direction as he made one last lap around the room.

"I'm all packed," he informed me.  "An' now you are, too.  We got everything on Father Mulcahy's list sittin' in my room."  We'd paid for an extra day for one of our rooms in order to have a place to store our bags and the requisitioned supplies before heading back to camp in the afternoon.  I was beginning to wish we'd chosen my room to book for the extra day.  Though I supposed I would have been woken up either way.

"Scotch?" I asked when I was unable to prod my brain into remembering if I'd already picked it up.  I wasn't feeling particularly charitable toward Drew at the moment, but it'd be more of a pain if I didn't bring any back with me.  There was a lesson in picking your battles somewhere in there.

Trap's expression darkened.  "Yep, got the fink's scotch."  He cut his eyes to the door as if he could see through it to the pile of supplies waiting in his room.  "I'd be happy to spike it with somethin' if you wanna."

I chuckled at his sideways offer of support.  "Let me find out what bee he's got in his bonnet now before we go about poisoning him," I suggested.

"If you insist," Trapper drawled.

As I carefully stood, caught my balance, and wrapped myself in my kimono, thankful that I hadn't bothered undressing any further the night before, we heard a bit of a ruckus outside.  With a curious expression, Trapper opened the door to find one of Uncle Chang's girls leading an honest-to-god rickshaw complete with its runner through the hall to my door.  There was about half an inch clearance on either side between the wheels and the walls of the narrow hallway, but somehow the old man pulling it had successfully navigated it to my door without causing enough damage to the property to draw any protest from Uncle Chang and his employees.  Or he could've just been waiting to bill us for damages after we'd left his hotel.

I shared an incredulous look with Trapper.

"I didn't think she was gonna take me quite _that_ seriously," he muttered, shocked.

"Where to go?" the elderly Korean asked in barely-intelligible English.

"Uh, lemme take this bag to my room," Trapper replied, hefting my duffle.  "Then..." he eyed me and sniffed "...I'm thinkin' we should stop by the public baths."

"Oh, very nice," I said with fake smile and an instantly-regretted roll of my eyes as he carried my bag the short distance to his room.  Granted, he had a point.  The eau de gin emanating from my pores could probably get a lightweight drunk from sheer proximity alone.  And if _I_ could smell myself there was no doubt that the fumes would cause anyone else's eyes to water should they have the misfortune of straying too far into my general vicinity.  From the expressions of the pretty little bellhop and the rickshaw's runner, my assessment wasn't too far off the mark.

Sweeping my eyes over the room I saw that Trapper had effectively packed up every belonging I'd brought to Seoul that I was not currently wearing, aside from my boots, which I trusted him to pick up before we left.  I staggered over to the rickshaw and was helped up onto the seat by the girl and the old man, both of whom were about half my height.  In hindsight it probably would have been easier on all of us if I'd waited for Trapper to return to manhandle my half-drunk self into the rickshaw.  But then, that was just one of the first lessons on hindsight that I'd be getting that day.

As I waited for Trapper to return, I mused in silence.

 

 ·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·

 

In _War and Peace_ , Tolstoy wrote:  "But all these hints at foreseeing what actually did happen ... are only conspicuous now because the event has justified them.  If the event had not come to pass, these hints would have been forgotten, as thousands and millions of suggestions and supposition are now forgotten that were current at the period, but have been shown by time to be unfounded and so have been consigned to oblivion."

And, oh yeah:  Hindsight is 20/20.


	10. The Tempest

As I'd predicted, we arrived back at the 4077 right around dusk.  The trip back to camp was not nearly as pleasant as the drive to Seoul had been, but that wasn't exactly a surprise.

Trapper kept me entertained (that is, distracted) with such golden discussions such as "Why the minefield is a perfectly valid destination for a tryst," and  "Tokyo vs. Seoul:  why flying over a sea in a tin can during a war is absolutely, positively worth it, even if it does give the phrase 'to die for' a bit of a literal sense."  Our consensus on the latter conversation in particular was that, in addition to a fairly drastic improvement in amenities, Tokyo also had the benefit of not being partially demolished.  Once you strayed from Seoul's main drag it was hard to forget that it had been a war zone not all that long ago.  And what was R&R if not a chance to escape from said war?  But, as someone with a gift for stating the obvious once said, "All good things must come to an end."  So there we were, returning to rats, lice, dysentery, and meatball surgery.

And there I was, diving headfirst back into that F.U.B.A.R. situation with my ex.  I really couldn't look at it as a relationship at that point.  Was it possible to redefine something that never had a label in the first place?  I pondered such philosophical questions as we rolled into the camp I'd grudgingly begun to think of as 'home,' an apprehensive silence having descended over the two of us just a couple miles back.

Trapper pulled the Jeep up to the Swamp before killing the engine, but we didn't immediately jump out.  Metaphorically dragging our heels, we exchanged unenthusiastic expressions.  Mine was likely somewhere along the line of dread and resignation; Trapper's was one of sympathy and, beneath that, a slow, simmering enmity directed toward the source of my problem.  After a moment of unspoken commiseration I finally got the motivation to haul myself up and out of the Jeep.  We unceremoniously dumped our bags on our respective cots and returned to said Jeep for the box of requested supplies.

"I'm gonna drop this stuff off at Father Mulcahy's on the way to the motor pool," Trap said, waiting to crank the noisy engine until after I'd plucked the fifth of scotch from near the top of the case where we'd wedged it between a few books and the assorted toiletries we'd collected for Klinger and the nurses.  "Good luck," he muttered, flicking his eyes toward the supply shed.  "Lemme know if you need some help givin' anyone's nose a resection or somethin'."

I nodded my thanks and, with a sense of foreboding and Drew's beloved scotch in hand, made my way across the compound to discover what was so damn important that Drew had to call me on my R&R.  My steps got progressively slower the closer I got to my destination, but I finally made it to the small hut and tentatively pulled open the door.

My breath caught in my chest at the tableau I found inside and I simply stared for a moment, shocked to stillness; transfixed.

Drew was lounging against the shelf lining the far wall, shirtless, pants dropped to his ankles, and directly in the line of sight of whoever might happen to open the door.  His head had been flung back in ecstasy, exposing his slender neck, and his chest heaved, sending ripples over the smooth muscles of his torso, but when he detected motion out of the corner of his eye he met my gaze and fixed me with a smug smile.  The young private on his knees in front of Drew – a fairly attractive, lanky brunet who absolutely had to be under 18 – obviously hadn't heard my entrance, and his continued efforts elicited moans from Drew that I suspected were now mostly for my benefit.  The sight and sounds sent an unwelcome jolt of arousal through my body, which I ruthlessly quashed.

_Stupid_ , I thought fervently as I stepped back quickly and silently pulled the door closed with ever-so-carefully-controlled movements.  Putting my back to the door and leaning against it, I lifted my face to the darkening sky – painted an appropriately sullen greyish-purple – and closed my eyes, trying to block out the muffled sounds I still heard coming from inside the hut.  The coppery taste of blood filled my mouth and it took a moment for me to realize I'd savagely bitten the inside of my lip in an effort to remain silent.

_Stupid_ , I thought again, and I wasn't sure if it was directed at Drew's carelessness, my surprise, or the hurt look I knew had crossed my face before I'd gotten the door closed.  Sucking in a shaky breath through my nose, I pushed off the side of the building but couldn't get up the steam to take more than a step or three away from the door.  My gaze slowly fell to the dirt at my feet as my mind raced furiously.

I wasn't jealous, really.  I wasn't.  I'd actually told him to go find someone else to have sex with during the fight we'd had the evening before I'd left for R&R, and I had genuinely meant it.  We weren't in a relationship; he wasn't cheating on me... this time around.  Hell, I'd figured it would make it easier if I wasn't the only one getting some action elsewhere.  (What was I thinking, associating 'Drew' and 'easier' in the same breath?)

That being said, it didn't mean I wanted him to rub my face in it.  I didn't want to see his expression while some other guy was getting him off, or see someone else's face where mine went, or hear the sounds that he made for me being elicited by another (younger) man.  If this was his revenge for my flirtations with the nurses or for my dalliances with the women in Seoul, in my humble opinion he'd taken it a few steps too far.

It was so much like Androscoggin again, only with infinitely higher stakes.  This time if virtually anyone else had been the one to walk in on him, his life would effectively be over.  This wasn't just risking expulsion from the college he had wound up flunking out of anyway, or further sullying his name in his small hometown.  Hoover was throwing men into _Alcatraz_ for things like this.  And, I mean, how much more blatant could he be?  It wasn't even fully dark outside yet, and he'd brazenly put himself on display in the unlocked supply hut.  It was almost like he _wanted_ to be outed.  He'd carefully arranged to have me catch him with his pants down (quite literally), but anybody could have opened that door.  Like Frank Burns, who was striding purposefully toward me at that very moment.

Frank was clad in his white doctor's coat, indicating that he was likely coming from a shift in Post-Op.  As he approached he said something to me but the words sailed cleanly over my head as I stood, rooted to the spot, a few feet from the supply hut.  I was still reeling from—  I winced as I saw Drew's smug face again in my mind.  Yeah.  _That_.  I shook my head, trying to dislodge the memory, and Frank paused between me and the door, asking something.  Some question – I recognized the interrogative tone, but didn't process the words.  My brain had come to a screeching halt when I realized that my fears were about to play out before my eyes.  Frank was just a few feet and seconds away from opening that door and witnessing the very thing that I was terrified of being brought to light.

I momentarily scrambled for an idea – any idea – that might redirect the major to anywhere but his current destination.  I could picture his face at what he was about to see – the disgust; the repulsion; the horror.  And I didn't have to imagine the expression that Drew would be directing toward the door before he saw who was on the other side – the cruel smirk, the quirk of those oh-so-familiar lips that he'd just sent my way was fresh in my mind.

I opened my mouth, but that vivid mental image held my tongue still and was followed immediately by the memory of Drew's threat before I'd left for Seoul just days earlier.  " _I'll out us both_ ," he'd said venomously.  Now _he_ was about to be outed – by a scenario that he'd so carefully engineered himself, no less – and my neck wasn't on the chopping block beside his.  There was no proof that I'd been sexually involved with Drew, and I could ask dozens of nurses to testify that I wasn't just feigning interest in the female persuasion.  Surely one or two of them would admit to sleeping with me if it came down to a court martial.  Bisexuality was somehow a fairly alien concept to the western world – even the Lavender Scare and American psychiatry focused solely on homosexuality as a threat and/or a mental disorder.  Bisexuals were practically invisible to both the heterosexual and homosexual communities, so it would likely come down to his word against that of a good number of women's – a single enlisted man with a poor service record vs. highly-esteemed officers.  Nobody would ever believe Drew if he tried to implicate me.

Probably.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

But I wasn't the only one at risk of being outed.  There was a kid on his knees inside that hut who'd been roped into Drew's machinations in some way or another, and whose life would also be ruined by his design.  I knew that Drew couldn't give a flying fuck about the boy's fate – the private was just collateral damage, a tool to be used and discarded once it had accomplished its task – but I couldn't allow Drew to ruin his future.  A moment of stupidity didn't warrant a sentence of life with the equivalent of a blue discharge. 

I was about to say something, anything – to ask Frank if he'd missed me, or how boring it had been without me and Trapper around to liven up the joint, or if he was going to see Hot Lips for some calisthenics after his shift, or what he'd eaten for frigging breakfast.  But instead of my voice, it was his high-pitched screeching that filled the air.  I'd taken too long to come to a decision, and Frank had given up on getting a reply from me, continuing on his way after shooting me a bemused and suspicious look.

His expression at the spectacle was just as I'd envisioned it.

I could've rushed over there, clapped a hand over his mouth, and made any number of blackmail threats until he promised to keep his big mouth shut.  But that wasn't guaranteed to work, and then I'd be implicated and at Frank's mercy.  It would have just been a matter of time before Drew got us both caught in some way or another, anyway, I told myself.

We weren't even two seconds in and I was already trying to rationalize my part in the clusterfuck.

It wasn't about revenge at that point, really.  If I wanted to absolve my actions – or inaction, rather – I could call it self-preservation, but the excuses felt about as hollow as I did at that moment.  I worried at the laceration on the inside of my lip, unconsciously sucking more blood from the wound as I numbly observed Frank's meltdown, feeling like the scum at the bottom of the latrine for letting Drew drag that boy down with him.  Soon half of the camp was congregating in the compound to find out what all the noise was about.  Littered among Frank's incoherent ramblings were words like 'perverts' and 'degenerates,' 'despicable' and 'sickening,' 'filthy' and 'depraved.'  I cringed at each one.

"Just what in blue blazes is going on here?!" Henry demanded as he weaved through the gathering crowd, taking charge in his own bumbling way.  "What's all the ruckus?"

Frank pointed into the dim depths of the supply hut.  "I just caught those two _perverts_ in the middle of—of…."  He trailed off, apparently unable to find a description for 'fellatio' that didn't offend his delicate sensibilities.

Henry turned to the two figures emerging from the supply hut and asked sternly (well, as sternly as Henry Blake was capable of), "Kenna?  Hale?  Can you explain to me what he's talking about?"  Under his affected tone I could hear a hidden plea:  _Please say this isn't what I think it is_.

Drew was still buckling his belt above his very obvious erection as if he didn't have a care in the world – at least not a situationally-appropriate care – and hadn't yet bothered pulling his shirt back on.  "I _was_ getting a blow job," he stated bluntly and unapologetically, seeming more disgruntled at the interruption than concerned about having gotten caught.  In fact, he didn't seem at all surprised to see Frank, Henry, or the growing crowd of people beyond the two officers.  He was shamelessly owning his offense, lacking the good grace to even try to cover for Private Hale's sake or look vaguely embarrassed for being seen in such a compromising position.  I was fairly certain I wouldn't look as cocky and unabashed if I were sweaty, half-naked, and sporting a raging hard-on in front of that many people.

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously.  Drew's schemes were nothing if not thorough.  Could the major's trip to the supply hut have been engineered just as mine was?  Was this a test?  If so, I had undoubtedly failed, and pretty spectacularly at that.  But it was out of my hands at that point.  All I could do wait and see if Drew would throw me under the bus in the interests of solidarity or revenge.

The dark-haired private – Drew's victim – was fully dressed, white as a sheet, and obviously terrified, hanging back in the older man's shadow as he conspicuously wiped his mouth and scrubbed his face with shaking hands.  He didn't make a sound.   It looked like all he wanted in that moment was to have the ground open up and swallow him whole.  I felt my heart go out to him and hated myself a little bit more for allowing Drew to drag him down with him.  No, he wasn't my responsibility, and yes, the kid had made one of the dumbest decisions humanly possible at an Army outpost, but I could have saved him from an inevitable future of hardship and hurt if I'd managed to think about something other than this mess between me and Drew before Frank had pulled that door open.  I doubted Drew was the least bit concerned with the fact that he'd just ruined the boy's life.  Hale was just a means to an end... though what the intended end was I wasn't yet sure.

Henry sighed in exasperation.  "Well this is just great."  He eyed Frank and then the compound full of witnesses, obviously coming to the conclusion that there was no sweeping this under the rug.  "Do you know how much paperwork…?"  He trailed off when it occurred to him that no one gave a damn about his paperwork.  "You three, come to my office."  He took a few steps before adding, "Kenna, put a shirt on, will you?"  By the time he thought to bellow for Radar, the young clerk was at his elbow.

As the group passed my position – Frank staying well behind the two soon-to-be-ex-corpsmen as if their 'depravity' might be contagious – Drew pinned me with an inscrutable look.  I really wasn't sure what was going through his head right then.  Brows knitting in a slight scowl, I pursed my lips and shook my head minutely in disappointment.

Unfortunately Frank caught our silent exchange and came to a halt.  "You can't tell me you didn't know," he said to me accusingly, placing his hands on his hips in a gesture that looked ridiculous when not performed by a preteen girl.

I wasn't sure if he was referring to the events that had just transpired in the supply hut or Drew's homosexuality in general, but before I could even begin to formulate a safe reply, Drew about-faced to come to my rescue.  " _Hawkeye?_ " he laughed with affected scorn.  "He wouldn't know a _fairy_ " – he sneered the word – "if Tinker Bell was dropping two-ton blocks of pixie dust on his head."

I blinked in surprise.  Drew was well aware that I could have saved him – that I'd actually stood aside and let him go down for this – yet here he was, covering for me.  Not extraordinarily well, mind you, but he was at least putting forth the effort.  I guess it was one of those 'It's the thought that counts' things, though to be fair he did manage to pull something out of his ass in less than a second.

My mind raced with possibilities.  Could the entire fiasco have been Drew's own screwed-up way of both protecting me from himself and getting out of the Army in one fell swoop, or was I reading too much into it?  I could understand him wanting out of Korea, but there had to be better ways of accomplishing that.  He was quite brilliant, when he wanted to be – surely he could have come up with something that wouldn't royally screw up his future and possibly get him thrown in jail, even if he didn't care that he was dragging that poor kid down with him.  I searched his big, dark eyes for answers.  The caring expression that very briefly softened his face before he turned away with a pretentious snort said that it was somewhere in the realm of possibility, but there was never a way to be certain with him.

Frank leveled a suspicious glare in my direction, obviously recalling the situation with George Weston, but let it drop for the moment.  He had his prize for the night, though I'd probably have to guard against any attempt from him to connect the dots and risk him coming to the wrong conclusion – or the right one.

With a stunned expression I watched the small group file into the outer office.  The rest of the onlookers slowly dispersed, whispering amongst themselves about the scandal.  What snippets I picked up as people passed by me had me wanting to cover my ears to block out their voiced thoughts on the matter.

I lost track of how long I stood, frozen, staring at the closed office door before becoming aware of Trapper's presence at my side.  He bumped my shoulder with his, then put a hand on my back and herded me gently to the Swamp.

"Maybe it's for the best, y' know?" he suggested with compassion once we were inside, prying the scotch bottle that I'd been clutching in a white-knuckled fist the entire time from my insensate fingers and setting it down by the still.  He watched me ease down into my chair before snagging two martini glasses and filling them almost to the brim.

"I could have stopped it," I admitted numbly, accepting the glass he handed me and staring into its contents as if it held the answers to all of the questions buzzing around inside my skull right then.  "I just... stood there.  Just... let it happen."

"Look, it was only a matter of time, the way he was actin'," Trapper replied bluntly, though his tone was still gentle.  "I'm just glad he didn't drag you down with him.  That poor kid, though...."  He shook his head regretfully, then snorted.  "What a moron."

"Yeah," I mumbled noncommittally, still hung up on his previous sentence.  Glad….  Then why did it feel like someone had just used a rib spreader to yank my laboring heart from my body?  Where was the intense, hollow ache in my chest coming from?  I was overwhelmed by heady waves of conflicting emotions.  Relief, regret, guilt, and loss all warred for top place while a steady stream of feelings too brief or vague to put into words flowed unceasingly beneath the surface.

"I've got to talk to him.  I need to know _why_."  I hunched over in the chair, slightly spreading my legs and resting my elbows on my thighs.  One hand held my glass and the other supported my chin.

"Hawk, no," my bunkmate argued firmly.  "Ever hear of 'guilty by association'?  You gotta stay away from him."

Never see Drew again?  Never find out why he'd covered for me?  It was unfathomable.  "I've—"  My throat closed up and I struggled to swallow the blood still slowly oozing from my ravaged lip as I chewed it thoughtlessly.  "I've got to know why," I repeated thickly.

"Well," Trapper began cautiously, "seems awfully convenient to me that you an' Frank caught him like that, don't ya think?"

I nodded; Trapper had come to the same conclusion that I had earlier.

"So, could be he just wanted out of Korea.  Could be he just wanted to hurt your feelings – to get back at you for Seoul, y' know?"  He shrugged, weighing his words carefully.  "An' I can't say I ever understood the guy," he added as something of a disclaimer, "but if I had to guess, I'd say maybe it was somethin' halfway between that and...."  He silently debated something.  "And maybe his own twisted way of protectin' ya."  He paused for a moment, gazing in the direction of the office.  "Much as I hate to say it, I think he does care about you.  He's just got a real fucked-up way of showin' it."

I tried to laugh, but it came out sounding more like a sob.  "Yeah," I said quietly.  "I know."  My lip quivered, and as the first tears tracked down my cheeks I realized I was shaking.

Trapper stepped around me to have a seat on my cot.  His hand squeezed my shoulder supportively.  "I'm sorry," he said simply.

Nodding my silent thanks, I gave into the inevitable and let the floodgates open.

 


	11. The Fallout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: language involving period-typical homophobia.

About an hour and an untold number of drinks later I was surprised to see both Drew and Private Hale being escorted to the V.I.P. tent by a pair of M.P.s.  While the kid still looked absolutely devastated, Drew walked with confidence, seeming completely at ease.  There was no sign of Frank and I realized gratefully that it was still his shift in Post-Op.  He'd likely been harassing Henry, Drew, and Hale more than tending to the patients, but I was honestly glad to have the Swamp and Trapper (not to mention copious amounts of alcohol) to myself.  I think if Frank Burns had entered the tent that evening I might've been riding with Drew to a court martial of my own – for the murder of a superior officer.

Of course, even Trapper's best efforts couldn't keep my thoughts from straying to Drew every six seconds.  Every time I looked at the still I imagined Drew pouring himself another glass as he sing-songed some stupid verse about the rotgut we manufactured, or reclining on my bunk as he regaled Trapper with some just-slightly-exaggerated tale of our college (mis)adventures.  The memories would then bring on yet another wave of conflicting emotions, prompting me to imbibe even more alcohol to drown them out.  It wasn't working out as well as I'd hoped.

Upon seeing him I had the overwhelming desire to run over to Drew and drag him into the Swamp for that talk he'd claimed to want the day before; to demand some answers; to make some sort of sense out of this clusterfuck; to give him a solid thump on the head – though I supposed it was a little late to go trying to smack any sense into him at that point.  And for some strange reason I was irrationally upset that I hadn't had the chance to give him his scotch – even if I'd been less than thrilled to be asked to procure it for him in the first place.  I felt like it would be some sort of tragedy if he left Korea without it (never mind that he might not be allowed to keep it).  I had no clue what the thought process was behind that, but it was just stuck in my head.  They say that the mind comes up with the strangest, most random thoughts while you're dying.  Apparently the same could be said for when you're watching a piece of yourself being slowly ripped away – even if it's not a piece that you're particularly fond of one-hundred percent of the time.

The majority of the gin's effects didn't make themselves known until I stood suddenly, which was unfortunate – both because I could have been enjoying a much higher level of intoxication and because it made staying upright that much more difficult.  As soon as I rose to my feet the ground swayed beneath me.  I clutched at the chair I'd just occupied to keep the floor from meeting me halfway and waited for the room to stop spinning before staggering to the door.

"Where d'you think you're goin'?" Trapper asked, rising to his feet as well, albeit quite a bit more steadily.

Gripping the doorframe for balance, I watched silently through the raised window flap as the group of four made their way across the compound.  Drew spotted the movement and graced me with one of those innocent-little-boy smiles that always made my heart melt.  I stared at him in utter bewilderment until he was ushered into the V.I.P. tent and out of my sight.

"Hawk."  I felt Trap's hand on my elbow and realized he'd been speaking to me.

"I... I, um."  Words.  Use them.  "Gonna go talk to Henry."  There, that was better.  Not going to be pulling in any Pulitzer prizes, but it got the point across.

"Hawk..." my best friend repeated in a pained tone, obviously distressed by _my_ distress.

"No," I said, heading his argument off at the pass.  "I know... there's nothing I can do for them now.  If I even wanted—  And I don't know..."  I trailed off, still at a loss on that point.  "Anyways.  I get that.  I'm not going in tilting at wim'ml—" I gestured with frustration in no particular direction before the word came out less garbled "—win'mills."  Okay, slightly less garbled.  "I just wanna know what happens next."

"We know what happens next," Trapper said gently.

"I mean, what Henry's gonna do with 'em tonight.  When they're gonna head to H.Q. for the pel–per–pre-lim-in'ry hearing."  Apparently my tongue was about as coordinated as my legs at the moment.  It didn't help that my lips were numb from the alcohol – except where I'd bitten the one earlier, which stung like the dickens with every swig I took.  "And where they'll be staying for the court martial," I continued.  _And when I'll see Drew for the very last time_ , I didn't say.  _And if I'll get a chance to talk to him_.

Trap took a moment to weigh the risks to me before nodding solemnly.  "Want some company?"

I smiled at him, grateful for his offer of moral support.  Or possibly physical support, if necessary.  "Nah.  But now might be a good time to raid the kitchen and restock the—" I faltered when my mind blanked for a second, but pointed in the direction of our precious distillery before the word came to my pickled brain, "—the still, if you don't mind."  I was draining it at an alarming rate and had a feeling I'd be needing more later.

My friend sent me a sympathetic look, obviously coming to the same conclusion.  "No problem."

After grasping his forearm in a wordless gesture of thanks, I made my way unsteadily to Henry's office, where the light of at least one lamp was still softly outlining the office door.  I started feeling a bit more sober once I got out into the chilly air, and was no longer staggering by the time I reached the office door.  I was unsurprised to find both Henry and Radar grimly filling out paperwork at their respective desks.

Radar's eyes widened when he saw me and he threw a quick glance in the direction of our C.O.'s office door, which was left partly open, presumably for easier communication with the company clerk.  "You might want to not bother him right now, Hawk," he whispered urgently.  "He's, um...."

"It's fine, Radar."  I certainly _sounded_ more sober.  "You mind if I talk to Henry alone for a minute?"  I wasn't sure exactly how our conversation was going to pan out, but I didn't think it was something Radar should be listening in on via stethoscope.

"Uh, sure, Hawk.  I, uh...  I need to go get some more ink from supply anyways."

Leaving a partially-completed form in his typewriter, he gave me an awkward little nod before exiting his office.  Already knowing what I'd find, I leaned down for a moment to read the first few lines of an incident report that would inevitably be sent out to I-Corps first thing in the morning.  With a disappointed frown I turned away from the incriminating words and rapped a perfunctory knock on Henry's door, pushing it open wider and stepping inside before he had a chance to react.

"Pierce," Henry greeted me, unsurprised and somewhat less than enthusiastic.  He'd obviously heard my entrance and, not being a complete moron, had an inkling of the subject I was there to discuss.  "Can this not wait until morning?  I've got the mother of all headaches and at least another hour's worth of paperwork to get through before I can even _think_ about going to bed, and tomorrow's going to be a long day."

"I just...."  I pulled up a chair, ignoring my C.O.'s sullen frown, but trailed off, uncertain of where to start.

He sighed.  "You do realize that there's no way I can make this go away, right?  It happened under my command and was witnessed by half the camp.  My hands are tied here.  Even if we could talk Frank out of reporting them somehow – and that would be a miracle in and of itself – it's going to get back to I-Corps one way or another.  And if it's not through me, my butt will be in a sling for the rest of the war when they find out I was aware of the situation.  Do you really want Frank as your commanding officer – again?"

I grimaced and shook my head.  I'd grasped the situation the moment I'd let Frank open that door; there was no going back, regardless of whatever the hell my feelings were.  (And while I hated that Hale was caught in the shitstorm, I was still highly ambivalent on the matter of Drew.)  "I get that.  I do.  It's just...."  Scowling, I huffed out a breath.  "What happens next?"

"You know as well as I do, Hawkeye," the colonel replied in a gentle tone, compassionately trying to cushion the blow with the use of my nickname.  "Preliminary hearing.  Court martial.  Sentencing.  They're both getting sent home – the question is if they'll be locked up when they get there."

I waved that off, trying not to think too hard on the possibility of Drew and that poor kid being thrown into a military prison for having consensual sex.  Henry was right; that wasn't news.  "I mean, now."  My brow furrowed and I gestured vaguely out toward the camp.  "You got both of them staying in the V.I.P. quarters?"  I wouldn't have been shocked to hear that Frank was in the O.R. delivering a cow at that news.  And I couldn't say that I was incredibly thrilled about the arrangement, either, for reasons I didn't really care to contemplate.

"Yeah."  Henry slumped further in his chair with an air of resignation and filled up a glass from an open whiskey bottle in his side cabinet.  He glanced at me as if about to offer me a drink, but after a swift appraisal turned his attention to his own glass, obviously coming to the conclusion that I'd had enough.  "Due to the severity of the charges they'll be confined to quarters until they're escorted to court martial," he said before taking a swig.  "Frank wasn't exactly thrilled, but there wasn't another tent that could be vacated to keep them separate, and no one was willing to allow them back in their assigned bunks for their house arrest – not to mention how dangerous that would be for their health and camp morale in general.  I asked Margaret if she would bunk with the nurses for a couple of nights, but she didn't want either of them in her quarters, and Father Mulcahy's obviously got to have his tent free for confessional.  We've got two M.P.s posted outside the door in the V.I.P. tent, though.  They'll be fine until they're taken to regimental headquarters for their court martial, if that's what you're worried about."  He eyed me speculatively but didn't ask any of the questions that we both knew he didn't want the answers to.  Willful ignorance seemed to be the stance he was taking, and that suited me just fine.

"I need to talk to Andrew," I explained succinctly.  "In private."

Henry seemed disappointed.  "Look, Pierce... I know Kenna was your friend, but you need to put some distance between the two of you, for your own sake."

I pursed my lips, unsurprised by receiving the same advice Trapper had given me regarding the risk of guilt by association.

"You're my best cutter," Henry explained further, "and I'd hate to have to fill out even more paperwork if Frank managed to incriminate you in any way."

I snorted and one corner of my lips quirked upward of its own accord.  "Your concern is touching," I told him sarcastically, though I knew that he honestly did care about my wellbeing, beyond whatever inconvenience the situation might become for him.  "But, really."  Leaning forward, I abandoned all traces of humor.  "I need to talk to him.  Before they take him away."  Henry frowned at me, and I lowered my voice in an earnest plea, desperation seeping into my tone.  "I just have to know _what the hell_ he was thinking.  And I—" my voice broke despite my best efforts "—I need to say goodbye."

Henry studied me knowingly for a moment, still frowning.  "I'll see what I can do," he said after a weighted pause.  "But, Pierce, you need to be discreet."  His blue eyes met mine seriously.  "Do you understand?"

I nodded my consent.  "I do," I assured him solemnly.  Aside from our heart-to-heart after Tommy's... well, after Tommy, this could very well have been the most sober conversation that we'd ever had.  Despite the fact that I, for one, was not all that sober.

"Alright.  I'll see if I can arrange something.  But for now, I need to get this paperwork filled out.  You go stagger back to your tent and try to sleep it off, okay?"

"Thanks, Henry."

 

·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·

 

When I exited the office I spotted Drew's little posse again.  This time he and Private Hale were lugging their suitcases from the enlisted men's quarters to the V.I.P. tent.  Neither of them looked very happy, though Drew still seemed more along the lines of irritated than disheartened, as if the affair was simply a mere annoyance and not a life-altering disaster.  They were being escorted by the same pair of M.P.s, who also didn't appear to be all that thrilled to be on babysitting duty.  I would've thought that it would be a break from the usual routine, at least, but they just looked peeved.

Perhaps it was the offense of their prisoners that had them displeased.  When I was under house arrest for belting Frank they'd seemed genuinely pleased to keep me company.  But now?  Drew and Hale were probably the two most detested men at camp – likely even topping Frank Burns on many peoples' lists.  After all, sexual deviants were public enemy number two, right after communists.  The Lavender Scare seemed to be second only to the Red Scare – not that that kept its policies from being implemented at the same time as the international crisis.  It was sadly ironic that Drew and Hale were being persecuted by the same government that forced them to serve in a war – sorry, a police action – for an offense that was so closely related to another policy of said government.

I decided that if Drew was anywhere near as bitter as me then he could probably use a drink, and I had a bottle of scotch with his name on it.  It wouldn't hurt if I caught him on his way back to the tent to deliver it.  I wasn't sure if I was going to take the opportunity to try to talk to him or bash his head in with the fifth of liquor, but I was willing to roll the dice and see how it played out.  By the time I'd returned to the Swamp to fetch his scotch, he and Hale were on their way back to their old tent with their M.P. shadows (who could very well have been serving as bodyguards rather than jailers at that moment), presumably to pick up their footlockers.

Liquor in hand, I swung the door open only to be met with Trapper, returning with the fixings for the still.  He quickly stepped to the side to avoid being brained by the door and lifted his arm, resting his hand on the center of my chest to aid in stopping my forward momentum and avoiding a messy collision.

"Woah there," he said, juggling his armload.  "Hold up."  He eyed the scotch in my hand and frowned.  "Hawk..." he began in a much less lighthearted tone that was starting to sound depressingly familiar.

"I'm just going to give him...."  I trailed off, lifting the bottle.

"Wait.  Just—just listen for a sec."  Trap started pushing gently with the hand that was on my chest and I reluctantly let him herd me back into the tent.  Satisfied that I wasn't going to make a break for it while his back was turned, he took a second to deposit his loot from the kitchen on the table by the still.

"I just thought I'd hand him his scotch while he's already out," I said defensively, gesturing to the compound where Drew and Hale were toting their footlockers back toward the V.I.P. tent.  I probably would have dropped it off even if he'd already been settled in, but I guess this felt like a more valid excuse.

"Why don't you wait 'til a better time?"  He drained some gin from the still directly into two glasses.  "Tomorrow, maybe," he suggested with a sidelong glance at me, gauging my reaction.

"How is that any better?"

The glass he offered me was so full it threatened to slosh over the edge during the handoff.  "It's just... you don't want to be runnin' over there right after something like this happens."

I shrugged, not really seeing a difference.  "Everyone knows that he's my friend.  It's not like it's news."  I sipped from the top of my glass, trying to get it to a level where a spill wasn't imminent.

"Yeah," he replied quietly, "but now they know that... y' know... they might be payin' more attention.  They might notice somethin' we don't want them to."

"Notice something?" I asked skeptically, looking up from my glass.

"Like I said before, Hawk, the way you two look at each other...."  He shook his head.  "I just don't want people gettin' too observant, is all."

I winced.  "That obvious, huh?"

"If they're lookin' for it, yeah.  Just bein' seen with him after... I don't want people wonderin' about you, y' know?"

Shaking my head, I huffed a sigh.  "I've got to see him before he goes."

"I know," my friend said, resigned.  "But do it when he's alone."

I pointedly surveyed the quiet compound with a raised eyebrow.

Trapper rolled his eyes.  "The kid's with him right now."

"So?  He might not _be_ alone before he leaves.  He's going to be guarded the whole time, and he's kind of got a roommate."

"So that kid's gonna take one look at you together and at least suspect something.  An' you know how they do these witch hunts, don't you?  They tell 'em, 'Give us some names and we'll make it easier for you.'  You really want to risk givin' the kid that kind of ammunition?"  Trapper gestured toward the V.I.P. tent with his martini.  "Andrew – he might cover for you."  He glared in the direction of the tent for a moment with a bit more heat before adding, "He better cover for you, or I'm gonna find him and punt his ass all the way back to San Francisco myself.  But a private we don't really know?  I don't wanna be dependin' on him doin' the right thing."

I pursed my lips, knowing he had a point.  "Alright," I conceded.  "Henry said he'd try to arrange something before they leave."  I gazed darkly into my glass.  "Guess I'll wait."

 


	12. Goodbye, Farewell, and Ambivalence

I was roused from my sleep by a very persistent company clerk at a time that my head informed me in no uncertain terms was still far too early to consider consciousness, taking into account the sheer amount of alcohol I'd imbibed the night before and into the early morning hours.  After batting at Radar ineffectively for a moment I realized through the haze of my hangover that he was stringing words together in what probably would qualify as a sentence if I could get my brain to process what I was hearing.

"...You... –-rporal Kenna... shower... chance... if you... –-awkeye... even listening?"

I blinked against the mild light coming in through the window on the door and realized that it had to be, in fact, late afternoon, though the detail didn't seem to faze my aching head at all, no matter how much I tried to convince myself that I really should not still be hungover.  Looking blearily up at the irritated corporal, I asked, "Can you run that by me again?"  Only it came out more like, "Kinyoorunthbymegin?"

Radar seemed to get the message.  Probably that ESP thing he had going.  He sighed in exasperation, but, seeing that I was more conscious, stopped poking and prodding me and started gathering some of my clothes, thrusting them in my direction.  "Colonel Blake said you could visit with Corporal Kenna if you get over there real soon.  Private Hale is on his way to the shower, so you have a few minutes to talk."  As he spoke he dug around under my cot (bless his courageous little heart) for my boots.  By the time he managed to find the second one I'd pulled on a clean(ish) pair of pants.  "He said to tell you to 'be discreet,' if you know what that means."  The last bit was said under his breath, and I wasn't sure if it had been part of Henry's message or if it was a personal addendum on Radar's part.

Undaunted by the lack of confidence shared by my friend, I welcomed the news with a relieved (if slightly bleary) hundred-watt smile.  "Thanks Radar.  Really."

The clerk returned the smile (albeit a bit more diffidently) and ducked his head.  "You should probably get over there..." he deflected.

I reached out and squeezed the little guy's shoulder in thanks.  "I owe you one."

 

 ·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·

 

 

I felt rather foolish as I skulked toward the V.I.P. tent.  The compound was quiet, with most of the staff congregating inside tents and at the O.C. that afternoon due to the light drizzle falling over the chilly Korean countryside.  Trapper was pulling a shift in Post-Op and Frank had practically camped out in Margaret's tent, presumably preparing for the next day's trip to regimental headquarters and the witch hunt I expected would ensue.  The major would be accompanying Henry and Radar as the complainant and a witness against the accused.  As the second (first) witness on the scene I likely should have offered to join them, but there was no way I was prepared to testify as to what I'd seen.  Henry very pointedly didn't ask, and Frank had apparently neglected to make the suggestion.  Thankfully I hadn't had to speak with my Major-pain-in-the-ass since the incident; I'd passed out by the time he got off duty, and stayed passed out for the entirety of the morning and early afternoon.  I wished I could avoid him for the rest of the war, but suspected that it wouldn't be a practical long-term goal.

They'd changed the guard since the previous night, and I recognized the new M.P. stationed at the door by sight only.  I took the fact that he was singularly guarding Drew to mean that the second M.P. was with Hale, elsewhere.  He looked at me curiously when I approached the door; apparently visitors had been few and far between.  I smiled sheepishly at him and lifted the scotch bottle in explanation.

"I was supposed to give this to Corporal Kenna last night," I told him by way of explanation, reaching for the door without waiting for permission on the 'It's better to ask forgiveness' school of thought.  He eyed me, but didn't make any move to stop me.  I knocked quickly, then stuck my head in.

The room had been provided with an extra cot.  The existing bed had been pushed up against the far wall, and the new one was pressed up to the front side of the tent on the opposite wall – essentially as far apart as they could get in the small space.  The desk and table had been shoved into the two spare corners, and two trays of partially-eaten, unsavory-looking C-rations, presumably from lunch, took up most of the table space.  Personal effects spilled out of both footlockers and suitcases, some looking the worse for wear.  I spotted a few torn and crumpled photographs on what seemed to be Private Hale's side of the tent, indicating that the guys' bunkmates had beaten them back to their belongings and made their displeasure clear.

Drew was lounging on the far cot, reading one of the books that were provided for visiting officers.  I couldn't make out the title, but it was a somewhat worn, red leather-bound number.  He tossed it aside carelessly when he saw me peek inside.

"Catching up on your light reading?" I asked him with false levity as I stepped inside, pulling the door closed behind me.

"Hawk!"  Obviously agitated, he fought to keep his volume low and wound up all but hissing his words.  "What the hell are you doing here?"

For what felt like the umpteenth time in the last two days I held up the damn scotch bottle.  "Delivery."

He frowned at me.  "You shouldn't be here."

I scowled, my lighthearted façade quickly falling by the wayside now that the door was between us and the rest of the camp.  "Yeah, well, I guess that makes two of us," I shot back irritably.  Without waiting for a reply, I waved the scotch bottle, indicating the tent or camp at large.  "What the _fuck_ were you thinking?!"

Drew shrugged, arranging his face into something resembling an innocent expression.  "I suppose I let my upstairs brain take a break for a bit, and _something_ had to be behind the wheel during the vacation.  You know how it is," he added pointedly.

"Bullshit," I rebuffed him bluntly.  "You set this up well in advance."

Drew regarded me silently for a moment as his expression morphed into a blank mask, eyes locked defiantly on mine, but didn't deny my accusation.  "Maybe I just wanted to get out of the Army," he suggested in a patronizing tone.

Oh yeah.  That was totally convincing.  I rolled my eyes and began pacing aimlessly in agitation, still clenching the neck of the scotch bottle in a slowly blanching hand.  "Drew.  You were caught in the middle of what the Army defines as 'sodomy,'" I explained sharply, trying to underline the stark situation at hand, because judging by his reaction he'd clearly misjudged the gravity of his current position.  Surely even Drew couldn't be that blasé.  "And then you drove the final nail into your coffin by announcing it to the entire camp, including our C.O.!  You're going to _jail_.  _Military_ prison, even.  As in, splitting rocks to landscape Leavenworth for the next five years.  Hell, Hoover is sending men discharged for sodomy to _Alcatraz_."  I realized my voice was rising and took a breath in attempt to calm myself.  "There's a dozen other ways you could have gotten out of Korea without risking jail time.  What could possibly be worth _this_?"

He smiled enigmatically in that infuriating manner of his and I shook my head as I doubled back toward the other side of the tent at a more rapid pace, recognizing the look on his face from too many years of experience and realizing that I was never going to get a satisfactory answer, no matter how much I beat my head against the figurative wall – or beat his head against a literal one.  It was some sort of power play on his part, or perhaps revenge for my failure to save him; he'd get off knowing that he was leaving me hanging, essentially condemned to wonder for the rest of my life.  Or at least until I could once more compartmentalize our history and pack it away in the far recesses of my mind for good (again).

"You know, when you do that it just makes me want to throttle you," I informed him.  His smile turned a bit more smug at that and I valiantly resisted the urge to smack the expression off his face – with my hand or lips, I wasn't sure.  God, the man was infuriating.  How had I let myself get wrapped up in him again?  'Just sex,' my ass.

I realized I was white-knuckling the scotch bottle and set it down with a heavy thud on the nearest flat surface before I gave in to the desire to brain him with the heavy glass.

"You owe me an explanation," I pressed as I continued my anxious trek around the tent, despite knowing full well that I was wasting my breath.

"I _owe_ you?" he repeated, somehow incredulous and mocking at the same time.  He reached out and snagged my arm to haul me to a stop.

Seeing as he was right there, I stepped forward, inches from his face as I looked down at his ever-so-slightly shorter frame.  "After everything?  The years at Androscoggin and this... this train wreck?  Yeah," I insisted.  "Yeah, you do."  I tried to yank my arm out of his grasp, but he tenaciously held on to my wrist.

"If I recall correctly, you let me get caught last night," he said icily, eyes narrowed.

Ah.  Seemed he was unhappy about that.  I hated feeling at least somewhat guilty for it, just as he'd designed.  "You can't pin this on me," I informed him in no uncertain terms.  "You engineered that entire thing.  You dug yourself into this hole to see if I would jump in to save you.  And I am done with your fucking tests and mind games," I spat.  "I'm just... done."  My anger battled with the knowledge that I probably shouldn't piss off the guy who could ruin me just by saying my name in front of the wrong people.  Self-preservation vs. passion; that seemed to be a theme with Drew.  "This is all on you, and you know it."  Apparently passion won out.

This time he did drop my hand when I tried to pull it out of his grasp.

"No," he told me firmly.  "You started this shit."

My head jerked back sharply, as if he'd slapped me.  "Excuse me?"

"Maybe I just wanted to get away from _you_.  Ever think of that?"  He paused for a second, ostensibly to let me think it through, while I blinked owlishly at him, taken aback.  "You think you're God's gift to men?  Oh, _and_ women?  Half the time I can't even tell if you give a shit about me."  Despite his anger, he still made an effort to keep his voice down, for my sake.  "About _us_.  Do you know what it was like, watching you around the nurses?  And _Trapper_?  Your 'just friends' roommate?"

Oh, for fuck's sake.  "I'm starting to remember the feeling, yeah," I retorted with a glare.  "Though _I_ never had sex with them right in front of you."  I gestured in the general direction of the supply hut.  "And I already told you, Trapper—"

He cut me off.  "You're so full of it.  You two hang all over each other, anywhere and everywhere.  But _me_ – you hardly let me touch you!"

"You know why?  It's because there is _nothing to hide_ with Trapper!  We can't get caught, because there is nothing for anyone to catch!"  I huffed in exasperation, then picked up another thread.  "And you think I don't care about you?  I'm here, aren't I?  Even after last night!"

"You're here to cover your ass," he shot back.  "You want to sweet talk me into forgetting that you just stood there and let me be outed."

I couldn't deny that I wasn't at all concerned with seeking absolution – the way he covered for me last night had engendered some sort of false hope, I supposed – and he obviously wasn't going to verbally admit to setting himself up to be caught; I could argue that until I was blue in the face and I'd probably only get a self-satisfied smirk in return.  So I elucidated my other, more noble motivations.  "Actually, I'm here because I wanted to know what the hell you were thinking!  And I—" my throat once again closed over the words "—I had to say goodbye.  Despite the recommendations of people who actually _care_ about my well-being."

"Yeah," he said bitterly, his voice finally rising above the hushed tones we'd been implementing throughout the argument.  "You wouldn't want to be associated with the camp fairy.  People might actually realize—"

Knowing where he was going with that statement and suddenly and painfully aware of the M.P. standing outside the door, I swiftly raised my hand, intending to clap it over his mouth.  Instead it wrapped itself around the back of his head, tangling its fingers in his soft black hair and yanking his face toward mine.  Desperate to stop the movement of his lips and the breath behind them, I silenced him with a hasty, almost violent kiss.

Upon realizing that my body had once again betrayed me I promptly began to pull back, but one of his arms snaked around my torso to pull me toward him until we were nearly melded together.  His other hand came up to lightly tug at my hair, keeping my head in place as he deepened the kiss.

I melted into his hold for the last time, trying to memorize his taste, his scent, the feeling of his tongue locked in a passionate dance with mine, and the light scratch of stubble against my chin.  I couldn't bring myself to stop until we both had to come up for air.  Instead of allowing myself to dive back into a scenario that could very well result in an undesirable or dishonorable discharge for me as well, I gently leaned my head forward, resting my forehead against his as we caught our breath.  As I studied his beautiful, dark eyes, framed by those long lashes that he'd used an untold number of times to erotically tickle my skin during some of the best foreplay I'd ever experienced (a prelude to some of the best sex I'd ever had), he released my hair and tenderly caressed my face.  My eyes fluttered closed as I leaned in to his touch.

"I love you," he whispered fervently, practically giving me whiplash with the abrupt change in his demeanor.  It hurt to hear him say the words out loud, after what he'd done last night.

I worried my abused lip for a moment before opening my eyes to meet his once more.  "You're a bastard, you know that?"

He smiled softly.  "You love me," he said confidently under his breath.

I sighed, loathe to admit he was right.  "I hate you," I retorted halfheartedly with approximately equal amounts exasperation and fondness, echoing the words I'd told him the first night we'd started this mess.  After his actions just the night before, how I couldn't stop myself loving this man I would never understand.  But I supposed there were a lot of things about Andrew Kenna that I would never understand.  Damn the man.  Damn his charisma.  Damn his dark doe eyes, his silky black hair, and the curve of his lips.  Damn his sexual prowess.  And damn that otherwise undefinable allure that kept me ensnared despite my better judgement.  I shook my head in futile denial.

"Say it," he pressed.  The gentle smile on his face turned smug, and it was so unfairly provocative in more than one sense of the word.  Something so annoying had no right being that attractive.

My brow furrowed and my breath caught in my chest.  For some reason the panic from that disturbing dream (just weeks before, though it felt like a lifetime ago) bubbled to the surface.  I'd been distraught at the idea of losing him without him knowing my feelings.  Could I really let Drew go without telling him I loved him?  I knew that he was intimately aware of the fact by now, but... would not saying it cost me some feeling of closure?

Following quickly on the coattails of that memory was the image of Drew in the supply hut, smirking at me over the head of the private on his knees before him, and the echo of his vicious words in my head ( _I'll out us both_ ).

I heaved a shuddering breath when another, even more disturbing thought occurred to me:  would not giving him this satisfaction increase the possibility that he'd drop my name during his trial out of spite?

I didn't want the last time I told this man that I loved him to be out of fear of repercussions if I refused.  Hell, Trapper had tried to discourage me from stooping so low as to even say goodbye to Drew after the pain he'd caused me last night.  What did it say about me that I was not only crawling back to him for a heart-to-heart but also struggling (not) to confess my love for him?

I was saved from having to make that decision by the sound of voices drifting through the tent walls and door.  Heart pounding, I immediately stepped away from Drew, running a hand through my mussed hair and hastily wiping my mouth on my sleeve to eradicate any potential evidence, hoping that my lips weren't unusually plumped as if they'd just been pressed against those of the only other person in the tent.  Since, you know, they had been.

My impromptu grooming session was completed just before the tent door opened with a creak.

Hale had returned from his shower.  After shuffling a couple feet into the tent, allowing the door to bang shut behind him, he caught sight of my boots amidst his intense scrutiny of the ground.  Startled, he jerked back a step and finally raised his head to see me standing a few feet from Drew.

I nodded to the boy, self-conscious and mindful of Trapper's warning.  Turning back toward Drew, facing away from the private, I sent him a soft, remorseful smile in farewell, then nodded more conservatively.  I gestured broadly toward the scotch bottle, movements slightly exaggerated in order to catch Hale's attention in case he'd once again dropped his gaze, and told Drew, "You might want to go ahead and finish it tonight.  I doubt they'll let you take it with you to the court martial."  Turning toward Hale, whose face was tilted down though he eyed me with caution, I told him, "Make sure Andrew shares."  Maybe my perceived altruism would keep the kid from being suspicious enough to name me during the court martial.  "Looks like you could both use it," I added with sincere sympathy.  I very carefully did not think about Drew getting drunk alone with the boy who'd just given him a blow job the night before.  Turning back to my... whatever he was to me... I said, more sternly, "Behave.  You don't need to dig yourself any deeper than you already have."

Drew sent me a reserved half-smile and managed to partially abort a roll of his eyes, winding up just cutting them toward the empty side of the tent.

Stepping toward the door, I told both of them softly, "Good luck."

Private Hale nodded jerkily, and I could tell that he appreciated the sentiment, however useless it was.  I supposed it could be a comfort to him to know that at least one person in the camp didn't hate his guts.  I locked eyes with Drew one more time, careful to keep my expression neutral, before heading out of the tent and quickly slinking my way back to the Swamp, feeling overwhelmingly unsatisfied.  I spent the night getting inebriated myself, and wishing like hell that Drew could be with me for one last hurrah.

 

 

 ·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·:·

 

 

I watched from the Swamp as Drew and Private Hale prepared to leave for regimental headquarters early the next morning, accompanied by two M.P.s.  Each had their own vehicle with a single M.P. pulling double duty as a guard and driver.  Either Henry had convinced the Army that they weren't flight risks or prone to violence, or they hadn't had time to get more M.P.s to camp on short notice.  The Army certainly seemed interested in expediting the procedures.  Best to get the undesirables out of their highly esteemed organization posthaste, I presumed.  It was clearly a system that had been implemented enough times in the past that the M.P.s and brass at headquarters were well-versed in the procedure.

The backs of their Jeeps were filled with their belongings, leaving no doubt as to the expected outcome (had there been any straw left to grasp).  Following directly behind them in another Jeep were Henry, Frank, and Radar.  The young corporal juggled a few ominously thick folders as he climbed into the driver's seat, eventually stuffing them into a worn briefcase.  The files kept Frank company in the back seat, and the officers' and clerk's small overnight bags were distributed into the free space of the prisoners' vehicles.

As the various belongings and gratuitous Army paperwork were being loaded into the scant free spaces left in the crowded Jeeps, Drew caught my gaze through the opaque siding of the tent.  Between the warmer morning and the desire to see Drew off, if only at a distance, I'd rolled up one side of the tent flaps despite my aching head.  He gestured toward me, and with some trepidation I stepped out of the Swamp.  Henry sent me a disapproving warning glare, but Drew made some noise about needing to pay me back for the bottle of scotch I'd bought for him and the M.P.s just passively observed from the Jeep as he walked toward me.

As he approached I saw a folded piece of paper in his hand.  It wasn't money; his words gave me hope that it was something much more valuable.  "I hope you find your answers here," he said quietly as he passed the paper off in a handshake, covertly caressing my hand one last time out of sight of the rest of the camp before dropping it to his side.

I nodded, glancing at the folded note before slipping it into my pocket.  "Thanks," I said at a normal volume.  Biting my much-abused lip in attempt to keep my expression platonically friendly, I told him in a more subdued tone, "Take care of yourself."  It was a woefully inadequate farewell, but it was the best that could be managed under the watchful gaze of half the camp and, more notably, Frank Burns.

Drew returned my nod and a softer, more tender smile, his back to any onlookers.  Pursing his lips, he swallowed the words I knew he wanted to say.  I crinkled my eyes in a smile that I didn't allow to reach my lips to show him that I understood.

For a moment I was worried that he wouldn't be able to turn and walk away.  It looked like he was concerned as well, but he finally heaved a sigh – perhaps not of regret, but certainly of resignation – and pivoted, striding back to the Jeep as if staying in my vicinity for a second longer would break him.

I certainly thought it might break me.

I watched the little convoy until it was out of sight, resolutely keeping my stinging eyes from overflowing.  After a few moments I once more became aware of Trapper's presence at my side.  I wasn't sure if he'd recently developed some sort of stealth mode or if I was just being that unobservant.

Taking me by the shoulder, he again led me the short distance to our tent, informing me that he'd taken my day shift for Post-Op and recommending that I sleep off the rest of the hangover before I took over the evening shift.  As chief surgeon, I approved of his plan.  Thankfully there were relatively few patients in Post-Op, and no serious cases remained.  The push would be coming soon, but Henry wasn't expecting the proceedings to take more than a day or two, and since there had been no spare doctors that could be temporarily assigned to our camp, the 8063rd would be taking the heaviest load of casualties until Henry and Frank returned.

Emotionally exhausted despite having been awake for less than an hour, I elected not to argue with Trap's generous offer – or insistence, as the case may have been.  He considerately lowered the tent flaps as I pulled off my boots and got comfortable.  After he'd headed back to Post-Op I sat on my cot and briefly debated having another few glasses of our lighter fluid to help me get to sleep with as little angst as possible, but my body elected to just go ahead and curl up on its side, making the decision for me.  I felt a few tears escape to collect on my pillow and was glad that they'd had the decency to wait until I was in the privacy of my bunk in the empty Swamp.  As if that thought had given some treacherous part of me permission, I felt the trickle of grief and hurt that had slowly welled up in my eyes turn into a flood.  Thankfully I didn't have to wait too very long before that flood had subsided into a very welcome unconsciousness.  I wasn't sure if it was the emotional exhaustion, the hangover, or the sheer relief of escaping Drew's perilous but bewitching hold on me that contributed to the blessed lack of dreams, but I was grateful nonetheless.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Silence is a writer's worst enemy. Constructive criticism is welcome. Reviews really make my day.


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